


Renegade's Legacy: Sadie Hawkin's Dance

by reddawnrumble



Series: Renegade's Legacy 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:05:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Castiel's brush with death, Sam ventures out to California to visit Jessica's grave. While there, he has a chance encounter with a familiar face from his past who just might be the much-needed tie Sam has been missing to his past - and a troubling link to the present dangers. Meanwhile, Dean struggles with shadows from his own apple-pie life, and the brothers face a slippery pair of potential enemies locked in a deathmatch at the behest of one powerful opponent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_December 12 th, 2011_

_Just Outside of Selwyn, Australia_

He’d been alone for a long time.

            There was a cabin in Australia, up on the crown of a flat-faced plateau. They didn’t call it a plateau here; he wasn’t even sure what they called it, because there was nobody here to tell him. He’d been by himself most of this time; he’d found this cabin within his first couple days. There was a well dug out back, pumping water in from an oasis that he’d discovered a few weeks later while he was exploring. There was a bed, a fireplace, and a decent kitchen. No bathroom, though. He figured whoever had lived here before had died and left everything behind.

There was also a corral out back, one side broken-down, the slats crumbling. That didn’t really matter much, because he’d never ridden horses a day in his life. But he could make this place work , he’d decided. As much as he missed people, it was probably better this way. He’d seen what he was capable of, and it was just better off if no one was close enough to be hurt.

Then, after a day and a half, the hunger had set in.

He’d tried hunting, at first, but that never really worked. There were traps on the walls inside his cabin, but he’d come too close to losing a hand the first time he tried to set one. The scariest thing he’d ever tangled with was a pot of boiling water and an electric can opener.

That was when he’d discovered his new power; he could talk to the wildlife in his mind. He could call them from miles away and they’d just show up, bleeding from feet cracked by endless walking. Sometimes they’d be dying, too purpose-driven by his silent calls to take care of themselves.

He learned quickly how to use a knife, and how to use it fast, so they didn’t suffer. He’d slide it in quick behind the elbow, into the heart. Within a few seconds they’d be dead.

He cried the first few times he did it. And then he steeled up his resolve and started to think the way a real hunter should: it was meat, it was prey. It was just something he had to do.

So he drew his own water, explored the outback whenever he could, and called the animals to him for food. And built up his strength, his mental awareness. Soon he could disappear and reappear instantaneously from anywhere he was exploring, to the cabin in less than a heartbeat. When a climbing excavation got messy and he lost his grip, plummeting toward spires of red rock below—then disappeared suddenly and rematerialized in his bed in the cabin, safe—he realized it wasn’t just a cool ability. It was a lifesaving skill.

He became the intrepid explorer of the wild Australian badlands, the fearless hero of the red earth. When the rains came and turned everything lush and fertile, he ran unchecked, pretending he was anywhere, because he had no boundaries.

Eventually, maturity caught up to him. He realized he couldn’t be a kid forever. So his hunts across the wilderness turned to map-charting. He wasn’t the greatest artist in the world, but he worked hard at it, sketching rough outlines of every place he visited. And then he started exploring the house, really taking stock of everything its previous owner had left behind for him.

And he found the library in the attic.

Four walls full of books in a lot of different languages, about things he’d never heard of or dreamed of. He fell into a pattern of exploring during the day and reading at night, when the wild dogs yapped outside the cabin and he saw the kangaroos hopping in the moonlight. He slowly taught himself languages: French. A little Spanish, a little Greek. The French was his favorite.

He had a hard time with Latin; the words tasted funny in his mouth. Eventually he gave up, because it always gave him a sore throat and made his head hurt.

Before long he’d memorized bits and pieces of every book. It was like taking himself to school, and he was okay with that. He missed his parents, he missed his friends. But he’d gotten used to being alone back at home. And this was his home now. He had to deal with it.

And he kept surviving, kept exploring, reading, and training up his powers. He was wary of them, determined not to use them for anything other than pure good. He remembered that he could do evil things; they’d told him that. He just needed to make sure he didn’t overstep the lines.

So he made boundaries: he never even looked for human minds in the area that could fall under his control the way the animals did. He never moved things with his thoughts unless he had to. Except for in cases of survival, he tried to be normal. He was secretly terrified of himself, something he only admitted in his mind when he was trying to fall asleep under the mosquito net every night. He was scared of hurting someone because of the bad blood inside of him.

So he used his powers for one other thing: to hide himself. He built up a resistance in his mind in case anyone or any _thing_ tried to penetrate, to find out where he was. He hid as much for the world as for himself. And he was a strange kind of happy.

And then, two years after he’d brought himself here, everything fell apart.

He was trying to fall asleep, the heat getting to him, making him uncomfortable despite his drowsiness. Face pressed into his pillow, drifting on the edges of sleep, he heard a single faraway roll of thunder that went on for what seemed like forever—getting louder and louder until it buzzed in his ears.

He sat up, eyes wide, as a brilliant blue arc flashed through the cabin, and died abruptly. His ears, sensitive to the silence, picked up on the crunch of a boot.

He flung the blanket off and ran to the door, easing it open an inch to look out into the hallway.

He didn’t see anything, at first.

A shadow darted through the splashes of moonlight on the wall.

He ducked into the room and shut the door, putting his back against it, heart pounding. He ran to the window, removed the screen with trembling fingers, and swung one leg over, straddling it. He dropped soundlessly to the ground and started running—he didn’t want any late-night intruder to seem him teleport.

And that one thought was clear in his mind: _How did they find me?_

A jet of purple-white fire speared into the ground in front of him, the aftershock of the impact racing up into his feet. He fell on his back, staring up at the single cloud that blotted out the moon—and found himself gazing into the chiseled, bearded face of a blond-haired man. He looked like he hadn’t shaved or combed his hair in years, it was all braided and tangled up.

It was the first person the boy had seen in two years.

“Here, Halfling. Have a taste.”

The man clapped a handful of salt into the boy’s face. It filled his nostrils, suffocating him, burning like he’d licked a hot stove.

The man’s boot collided with his head, and his red world, his lonely kingdom, his paradise slid away from him for the last time.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_December 13 th, 2011_

_Embarcadero Road_ _, Palo Alto, California_

The room was dark when Sam stepped inside, just dark enough to bring him down off an adrenaline high.

            He flung himself down on the bed with a sigh, resting his head back on his crossed arms, eyes closed. He was beat, worn-out, feeling like he hadn’t stopped moving for days. Which, technically, he hadn’t. But long hours of research had him used to that; it was the hunting that made him weary. Hunting with Dean always did, and he still hadn’t gotten used to it after all this time.

            Sam hated being alone. But the whole place, this room, smelled like cookies, like a home was supposed to. It was good to be back, even if he’d only been away for a few days. It was good to get things back to normal.

            Something warm blotted his forehead. Fighting the urge to just roll over and fall asleep, Sam wiped it off with his fingertips, frowning at the consistency. Too thick to be water from a leaking roof. He pulled his hand away and cracked his eyes open to look at it, squinting in the darkness.

            Blood. There was blood on his fingers.

            Sam’s eyes snapped up to the ceiling.

            He woke up fast and hard, like he’d gotten kicked back to consciousness. He threw off the blanket and sat up, gaze sweeping the empty room. The wall-unit air conditioner hummed in the corner, breaking up the dry, arid atmosphere of the abandoned house on Embarcadero Road. Sam had reached Palo Alto with enough money in his name to gas up the Impala, and not much else. He’d been reduced to squatting in a vacated, but not unkempt, house. He was hungry and running on empty after making the drive from Sioux Falls to California in one sweep. And now the nightmares.

            Sam rubbed his face with his hands.

            It had taken him two days to grow antsy staying at Bobby’s. That they’d even made it there in one piece was a stroke of good luck, what with demonic omens starting to blossom across the United States again, in number and force they hadn’t seen since the Devil’s Gate had been opened years ago. But after staying at Lidya Barons’ house in Essex, Maryland while he and his brother Dean worked the case of a Draugr that had been killing their fellow paranormal hunters for fifty years, Sam hadn’t been able to stop thinking about _her_. About Jessica, the girl he’d loved who’d died in their apartment on Stanford’s campus, her life just a piece in the sick game of a yellow-eyed demon named Azazel—a game to make Sam some kind of demonic warlord.

            It was her memory that had made him restless, had brought him back here. Jess had been dead for five years this past November, and Sam hadn’t visited her grave once, hadn’t left flowers or stopped to tell her that he was sorry. Not that she could hear him—she was probably in heaven at this point, Sam would’ve heard by now if she was in Hell. But he felt like it needed to be said anyway, and he’d been plagued by it since Essex. Dean had finally cornered him in Bobby’s salvage yard and demanded to know what was bothering him.

            “It’s Jessica, Dean.” He’d hopped up on the hood of his brother’s Impala and rested his clasped hands loosely on his knees. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

            “I don’t blame ya, Sam.” Dean had leaned against the car beside him. “I know you were in love with her. Hell, you wanted to marry the girl. But it’s been five years, man. You gotta move on sometime.”

            Which he’d tried to do. With Sarah. And Maddie. And Ruby. But Sam wasn’t an idiot and he was done living in denial: the nights when Jess had visited him in his dreams, during the few weeks he’d spent away from Dean after they’d brought on the Apocalypse—he couldn’t pretend or shove away the feelings that had choked him when he’d been able to touch her again. Never mind that it had just been Lucifer’s illusion giving him the feeling of being with her again. Sam had felt like his heart was splitting open just seeing her face.

“I know, Dean.” He’d said, staring across the endless chasm of rusted, battered old cars. “Look, we’ve been hunting together a long time. We’ve taken…maybe two or three cases in California since we got back in business. I need to see her.”

            “See the grave, you mean.”

            Sam had looked down. “Yeah.”

            After a pause, Dean had shrugged. “Stay. Go. Your choice, Sam.” He’d started to walk back inside, then added over his shoulder, “Just make sure you bring my baby back in one piece, all right?”

            Sam had been relieved to take the Impala and hit the open road alone. Mostly because being crammed in at Bobby’s place had quickly become depressing this time around; the situation tended to get that way when your friend, who also happened to be an angel, was hanging onto life by a thread in the panic room downstairs, the only place where his enemies both demonic and angelic couldn’t reach him. Devil’s Traps and Enochian inscriptions had guaranteed that. But while Sam had had his fair share of brushes with that panic room, the one thing he couldn’t abide was sitting around waiting for something to happen. If Castiel was going to die, Sam wanted to hear about it over the phone, when he could deal with it alone.

            The rumble of a car moving down the street jarred Sam from his memories. Endless sleepless hours of driving had brought him this far, and already he felt too exposed without Dean watching his back. He needed to get things sorted out and head back to Sioux Falls, even if this reprieve was welcome. Lives could depend on it.

            Sam went through the motions, checking his phone for messages, showering, getting dressed. Then he checked his gun and slid it into the waistband of his jeans, toweled off his hair, and scattered the line of salt on every door and windowsill in the house. It paid to be careful with demonic omens on the rise.

            The Impala started with a smooth hum and Sam hit the One-Oh-One heading east. He left the window rolled down, the dry air whipping through the car. Sam cranked on the radio and heard the first strains of a Jack Johnson song setting the mood for another lonely drive.

            It was strange to be back in California after all these years; strange and unsettling, because it hadn’t changed much. The same roads Sam and Jessica had ventured on during their time at Stanford were unchanged apart from some minor renovations, new businesses cropping up in spurts. Sam passed a park where he’d gone running with Brady, the demonic emissary who’d been his best friend for two years; the falafel stand where he’d always ordered the same thing, falafel with cucumbers, once a week every week; the church he’d gone to with Jessica once or twice; the lagoon restaurant where Brady had introduced him to Jess, the place where Sam had planned on proposing to her.

            Setting his jaw, Sam upped the gas until he was cruising at seventy. He’d been fighting headaches on and off for the past week and a half and the night of driving hadn’t done him any favors. Neither did reaching out for a past better left alone. In light of the fragile wall in his mind separating Sam from memories of Hell—where Lucifer waited to taunt him with threats against the people he cared about—Sam was beginning to appreciate just how far he could push the past away. For him, it was a matter of life and death nowadays.

            Passing under the “Gate of Heaven Cemetery” sign felt to Sam like the kind of irony you could forge a weapon out of. That they’d seen a swarm of demons released from a Devil’s Gate in a similar graveyard was by no means lost on him, but he tried to force that down, too. Sam had a mission, and he wanted things to go his way for once; didn’t want to get sidetracked, distracted or screwed with. That was why he’d come alone.

            Like most cemeteries Sam had visited in his eventful career as a hunter, this one was manicured, well-watered and dotted with splotches of color where people had left flowers and wreathes on gravestones. Sam slowed the Impala to a crawl; he hadn’t been to visit Jessica since the day they’d buried what was left of her body, but the image of the graveyard’s layout, like that of most maps, was burned into his mind.

            The pond at the far edge of the cemetery reflected the clear blue sky, a weeping willow sweeping its fronds across the surface, rippling it. Sam cruised past and reached the plot that had been bought by Jess’s family decades ago, where her grandparents and great-grandparents had been buried. He stopped the Impala, braced his hands on the steering wheel and took a deep, steadying breath.

            “Just do it.” He ordered himself, and then he popped the door and got out.

            The dry wind did nothing to cool the flush of heat on the back of his neck. Sam walked to Jess’s grave and knelt, brushing aside a scattering of dead leaves that had fallen from the willow, sitting back on his heels to read the name carved into the stone. Remembering nights he’d dreamed of being back here, erasing the name, turning back time so he could’ve been there when Brady walked into the apartment to kill her.

            It would’ve had to end, he reasoned with himself. Eventually. He knew hunters couldn’t have a domestic life, couldn’t have wives, friends, kids. Not really. Ellen had tried, dad had tried. Now Ellen and her daughter Jo were both dead, as was John Winchester, and Sam would be the first to admit that he and Dean weren’t the most stable people in the world. This life, it tore people apart. If Jess hadn’t died, he would’ve left her. It was inevitable.

            That didn’t ease the crushing weight on his chest or take away the sting behind his eyes. Alive would’ve been better. At least alive, hating him for leaving, or not, maybe even still caring about him, he could’ve watched over her. He could’ve seen her breathing and known he’d protected what mattered most.

            Instead he was kneeling in front of her grave, his wrist on his knee, trying to keep his composure while all the memories caved in on him.

            “Um, e-excuse me?” The soft voice startled him and brought him up onto his feet, turning, pushing his hair back with his hands. Sam found himself facing a very pretty girl with loosely curled blonde hair and wide green eyes. She was carrying something hidden behind her back.

            “Uh. Hi.” Sam said awkwardly.

            “Hi.” The girl looked at him warily. “Is there something I can help you with?”

            “No, actually, I’m just, uh,” Sam half-turned back toward the grave, and the predictable tug on his throat made his awkwardness ease. There was no point feeling awkward standing over the grave of his dead girlfriend. “Here to see Jess.”

            “Oh. Me, too.” The girl held up a small clutch of flowers as an explanation, then stepped carefully past Sam and laid them at the base of the headstone. Sam caught the smell of the flowers and half-smiled, dryly.

            “Freesia.”

            “They were her favorite.” The girl stayed down on her knees in the grass for a few seconds, then pushed herself to her feet. “When we were little, my mom used to grow them in the gardening box outside the window. Jess helped me weave them in my hair.” She wiped a hand suddenly under her eyes. “Sorry. I’m sure you didn’t come out here to listen to my stupid sob story.”

            “No, it’s okay. Uh, actually,” Sam paused, wondering if he would be betraying something confidential or just plain ridiculous to tell her the next part. “She had me braid them into her hair a couple of times.”

            The girl laughed, a crystal-clear sound that somehow made Sam feel a little better. “That sounds like Jess, all right.”

            “Yeah.” Sam stepped up to her side, staring down at the cluster of freesias. “Look, I don’t want to pry, but you were her—?”

            “Cousin.” The girl turned to face him, offering a hand. “I’m Sadie. Sadie Savage.”

            Sam wanted to lie, give her an alias. But in that second he didn’t feel like anyone got what he was feeling the way this girl did. So when he shook her hand, he said, “Sam Winchester,” and braced himself for the fallout.

            Predictably, the girl’s grip grew slack. She pulled her hand back and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Sam Winchester. Jess’s Sam? The…the one she was living with?”

            Sam fought the urge to wince. “That’s me.”

            “Oh. Oh, wow.” Sadie pressed a hand briefly to her mouth. “I have heard _so_ much about you. Jess used to talk about you all the time.”

            Sam looked at her more closely, feeling the pieces falling together. “Christmas, Two-thousand-five. I remember I went to that party with Jess, you were—?”

            “The girl running the karaoke booth.” Sadie squinted painfully. “Let’s not—”

            “Yeah, not exactly the best party of my life.” Sam agreed.

            “Of the century.”

            “Yeah.”

            They both laughed, that uneasy laugh of a shared painful experience, and then Sadie turned back toward the grave. “Jess used to visit me on weekends her sophomore year and just gush about you. You were a huge part of her life.” Her gaze slid to him sideways. “I’m…surprised I haven’t seen you here before.”

            “I’ve been traveling.” Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. “My brother and I, we…we don’t see California much.”

            “Well, I’m glad I finally got to meet you face-to-face.” Sadie shrugged. “In a non-alcoholic, _non_ -karaoke kind of setting.”

            “Definitely more memorable this way.” Sam smiled.

            Sadie nodded, then stepped back, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “I should…I should get going.”

            “Yeah.” Sam nodded. “Well, hey, it was great seeing you.”

            “Yeah, you too, Sam. You look great.” Sadie hooked her thumbs into her back pockets and leaned forward slightly. “By the way, um, you know you can’t sing Bon Jovi very well?” Sam gave her a puzzled look and she added, “I have associative memory. I see faces and it triggers memories: sounds, smells, that kind of thing.”

            “I sang at that party?” Sam demanded.

            “Mmm, not sure I’d call it singing.” Sadie smiled. “But yeah, you…you tried.”

            Sam paused for a minute, fighting down laughter. “Wow. I must’ve been…pretty wasted, huh?”

            “I seem to remember Jess having to carry you out.” Sadie straightened and nodded to her car. “Listen, it’s been a few years since…since Jess died, right? Maybe we can do some catching up, you know, swap some stories?”

            Sam’s immediate instinct was to protest; he’d done what he came for, he’d seen the grave. But he’d also been interrupted, and that meant a job only half-done.

            So instead of declining, he found himself saying, “Sounds great. Uh, what time?”

 

           

Sam picked up Sadie from the Palo Alto Housing Complex on Alma Street, another area that hadn’t changed much since Sam had brought his car to Ole’s Car Shop five years ago. Sunset came quickly at this time of year, so that he sat under the harsh glow of a streetlight, watching the reflection on the Impala’s hood until the passenger door opened suddenly, startling him.

“You drive an _Impala_?” Sadie demanded, sliding into the front seat. “What year is this? Sixty-six?”

“Sixty-seven.” Sam grinned. “You’ve got a thing for cars?”

“Sort of a guilty pleasure. My uncle was a real grease monkey, he used to drive this beautiful, I mean, just gorgeous cherry-red Sixty-eight mustang. She’ll be mine,” Sadie shook her head slowly. “ _If_ I graduate.”

“Stanford?” Sam asked. Sadie nodded. “What’s your major?”

“English, minoring in dance and mythology.”

Sam swallowed and looked out the window. “Mythology, huh?”

“Yep. It was sort of an obsession when I was a kid. It started with, um, The Odyssey? You know, Homer? I thought the whole thing was genius.” She propped her elbow on the windowsill and rested her head on her fist. “Sort of an inevitable field of study, I guess.”

Sam couldn’t help it; his tension came out in a burst of laughter.

Sadie grinned. “What? Too academic, not enough sane?”

“No, it’s just, uh,” Sam shot a smile toward her. “My…my dad’s friend, he’s like a second father to me. He’s _obsessed_ with lore.”

“Nice! Greek? Celtic?”

“Uh…little bit of everything, I guess.”

Sadie nodded. “I can respect that. I’m a Greek nerd, myself.”

“What period?”

“Mostly Hellenistic.”

It was the easiest thing Sam had done in what seemed like years, driving to a Bistro he knew from his college years, talking to Sadie, who was as passionate about mythology and her major as Sam had been about law school, or Dean was about hunting. For the first time in an eternity, he felt normal, totally relaxed as he parked outside the bistro and hurried to open Sadie’s door for her.

“I guess chivalry isn’t dead,” She commented wryly as she stepped out and looked up at the building. “We came here for my dad’s birthday, once. Great food.” She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

The rest of the night passed for Sam in a blur of actual quality alcohol, delicious food and company that he qualified as exceptional at least. Sadie was excellent at filling in awkward pauses, so Sam never felt the social pressure to ask her irrelevant questions he didn’t care to hear the answers to. And she didn’t pry into things when her questions made him clam up—after all, how was he supposed to tell this girl he’d just met that in the last two years, he’d fought monsters, demons and angels, started the Apocalypse, been to Hell and back? The things Dean understood, things that were just dust under the rug for them, it would send a normal person like Sadie screaming from the Bistro. And Sam didn’t want to shatter this fragile illusion of normal tonight.

“Sam?” Sadie’s voice pulled him abruptly out of his thoughts. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Sorry, I was,” Sam smiled sheepishly. “Spacing out, I guess.”

“What were you thinking about?” She speared a garlic prawn and pointed it at him like a weapon. “And don’t tell me you were thinking about me. I’ve heard that line a million times from bored guys on bad dates.”

Sam’s smile softened. “I was actually thinking about my brother.”

“On a date with a girl?” Sadie pursed her lips as though fighting laughter, and shrugged. “Well, all right, if that’s how you want to be…”

“This is a date?” Sam asked quietly.

Sadie looked startled and almost dropped her fork. “No strings attached! I swear. You don’t even have to pay for my food. You just,” She tucked her hair self-consciously behind her ear. “In the cemetery, you really looked like you could use someone to talk to.” Sam didn’t say anything, he didn’t know what to say. Sadie looked at him cautiously. “So, you have a brother?”

“I had two.” Sam said. “One of them…died.”

He felt a flicker of something, a grating dash of red-and-white against the backs of his eyes that he hastily pushed away.

“Only child.” Sadie pointed to herself. “Probably why Jess and I were so close. She was the sister I never had.” She stabbed around her plate, fishing for more prawns. “What’s it like, having a brother?”

Sam laughed uncomfortably. “Never a dull moment.”

“Are you two close?”

“We used to be.”

Sadie nodded. “I know the feeling. I used to be really close to my family. But they didn’t want me coming to Stanford. I sort of fell out of their good graces when I moved down here from Oregon.”

“Look, it may not be any of my business, but they’ve gotta be pretty dense to disown you for where you go to college.” Sam said frankly.

“It wasn’t the college, exactly.” Sadie flushed.

Sam sat back, smirking. “Lemee guess. Some guy?”

“No!” Now she was blushing furiously, staring at her plate. “It was just another one of my stupid obsessions. Wanting to see the world, escape from my parents, maybe…I don’t know, track down a few movie stars. I outgrew it, okay?”

Sam relented. “Sorry.”

Sadie wiped her nose on her sleeve and started pushing through mounds of pasta drenched in Alfredo sauce. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Sam. I’ve just…I’ve heard it all from my parents. All the stupid reasons I came down here, all the reasons I should’ve stayed. I’m just tired of it. No offense.”

“Hey. It’s cool.” Sam made a calming gesture with his hands. “I get it.”

The evening wound down from there, from the stilted moments of awkwardness after to talking about Jess. Sam hadn’t talked about her more than a dozen times with Dean, and somehow this was easier. Dean had liked Jess from what Sam had been able to tell—then again, Dean liked every attractive girl he crossed paths with, and in Sam’s unbiased opinion Jess had been more beautiful than most—but Sam had never felt like his brother understood the different ways Sam missed Jess.

Sadie finally sat back in the chair, pulled one knee up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her ankle. And she just looked at him, smiling.

“Why did you come back, Sam?”

He cut a glance toward her. “Why d’you ask?”

Sadie shrugged. “Well, it’s been five years. I haven’t seen you around. I know what you said, earlier, that you travel a lot. With your brother, I mean.” She rested her chin on her knee. “What made you come back now, after all these years?”

Sam wanted to say that it was the walls closing in on him; it was knowing that any day, he could scratch the mental block just hard enough to shove a railroad spike of pain into his head so powerful it would cripple him permanently. It was the fear that one day a ghost, a ghoul, a demon would get to him and he would never have said goodbye the right way, would never have apologized at Jess’s grave and asked for forgiveness. For everything he’d done to her. To himself. To the people he cared about.

“Just seemed like the right time, I guess.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Sadie asked. Sam shrugged. “Usually, what keeps people away is this feeling like they let down someone they loved. It’s kind of like a cancer. It just eats you up inside until you can’t take it anymore. Sound familiar?”

Sam licked his lips with a smile, looking down at his plate. “I can relate, yeah.”

Sadie stood up. “Well, it’s late, and…I have class in the morning. We should go.”

The drive back to her apartment was silent but not expectant by any means. Sam left the windows rolled down and Sadie hung her hand out the window, making airwaves. In some ways she reminded Sam of a kid; she looked carefree.

He felt a punch of regret. He missed being ignorant.

They pulled up outside the complex just after midnight and Sadie turned in the front seat, tucked her hair behind her ear again and cleared her throat.

“It was good to catch up, Sam. You’re a really easy guy to talk to.”

“Yeah. Thanks for listening, Sadie.”

“You too.” She smiled. “And you know, as long as you’re in town, if you ever want to talk again you can get in touch.”

“Guess I’ll need your number, then.” Sam teased. Sadie arched an eyebrow.

“That’s presumptuous. Are you assuming I want to be bothered at all odd hours of the day? I have a GPA to maintain, here!” She opened the door, laughing, and climbed out in the balmy night. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“’Night, Sadie.” Sam leaned across the seat to flick a grin at her through the window. In the same second Sadie smiled and walked away, Sam saw someone duck out of sight behind one of the pillars at the complex’s front door.

He frowned sharply, every sense on immediate alert. When nothing moved in the shadows, Sam got out and hurried to catch up to her. “Sadie, wait!” She turned to face him, expression puzzled and a little startled. Sam stopped beside her, glancing at the pillars. “I’d…be kind of an ass if I didn’t make sure you got home safe.”

“I…am home?” Sadie pointed to the door a few feet away.

“Trust me.”

Sadie shrugged. “Okay, whatever you say.”

The elevator ride to the fourth floor was one of the most uncomfortable of Sam’s life. Sadie kept looking at him from the corners of her eyes as though expecting him to have a sudden mind-altering personality shift that would cause him to leap on her and try to rape her right there in the elevator. Sam crammed his hands into his pockets and tilted his head back to look at the fake-gold ceiling.

They reached the fourth floor and the doors slid apart with a hiss. If Sam hadn’t been watching out for it, he wouldn’t have noticed the very tall, slender figure retreating around the corner.

Sadie hurried to her apartment and started fumbling with the keys. Sam grabbed her wrist gently, pushing it down.

“Sam.” Sadie snapped. “What are you—?”

He put a finger to his lips and tapped the door with the back of his hand; it swung inward on its hinges. Sadie pressed a hand over her mouth and looked up at him, wide eyes full of fear. Sam nodded briefly and stepped into the room ahead of her, casing it with a glance: open living room, raised kitchen with a thin dividing wall, hallway leading to two doors: probably a bedroom and a bathroom. With Sadie right behind him, Sam made a sweep of both and found them empty.

He loosened up, led the way back into the living room and turned on all the lights.

Sadie blew out a breath and sat hard on the couch. “I swear I locked that door.”

“You probably did.” Sam took his time checking door; no sign of forced entry, but something had opened it. No other signs of entry in the apartment, either. “Sadie, have you noticed any unusual activity in your neighborhood lately?”

“This is _California_ , Sam. Your unusual is our normal.”

“Fair enough.” He conceded. “But have you noticed any strange _people_? Any cars parked outside for a long time?” She shook her head. “All right, what about cold spots? Uh, weird smells? Like rotten eggs, or—” He broke off, taking a deep breath, a sour-sweet smell smacking his senses. “Freesia.” He looked at Sadie wide-eyed. “What kind of perfume do you wear?”

“Adidas?” She looked at him cock-eyed, clearly bemused. “Sam, what’s going on?” She wrinkled her nose. “I smell gas. Like, natural gas.” Her eyes flew open. “Is that a fire? Is there a fire in here?”

“Calm down.” Sam urged, though he was having a hard time doing as much himself. “We just need to—”

The freesia smell grew suddenly stronger and Sam felt a cold chill prickle the back of his neck. Then it washed out so quickly it almost made his head spin. Sam looked at the door and saw it had eased open a few inches again.

Sadie didn’t seem to have noticed. She sank slowly back against the couch. “I just remembered something. There was this, um, this guy, a man. He was in the lobby yesterday and I just got a really bad feeling when I was around him. I felt like he was staring at me.”

“Can you remember what he looked like?”

“No, he was wearing a hat. And a trenchcoat.”

Sam felt a spurt of hope that fizzled out when he remembered that Castiel was still at Bobby’s. And besides, he’d never known the angel to wear a hat.

“Sadie.” Sam paced back and forth, dragging his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to freak you out. But I think you might have a stalker.”

“What makes you say that?” She asked, defiantly optimistic. “It could’ve just been the wind blowing the door open.”

Sam tested the knob. “It’s locked.”

“Oh, God.” Sadie yanked her hair back in a knot and then let it loose to fall over her shoulders. “How did he get in here?”

“I’m not sure.” Sam ran through the list in his mind. There were two likely suspects, and ghosts and demons moved primarily through vents. He checked every grille in the room, every plug and socket in the walls: no signs of ectoplasm, which was something of a relief.

There was no smell of sulfur, either. By now Sam knew exactly what he was dealing with, but that didn’t make him any more knowledgeable in the long run. He hadn’t had much time for research in Sioux Falls helping Bobby bandage Castiel’s mortal wounds, and he’d left the laptop in Dean’s moderately-capable hands. All he had was half-formulated feelings and the smell of freesia.

“Should we call the police?” Sadie asked. Sam could feel her eyes following him as he moved around the room, checking and stalling, giving himself time to think.

“No offense, but I’m not sure how much they can do.” Sam said.

“Well, they can assign someone to _watch_ me, right?”

“Look. Again, I don’t want you to get too worried. But if this guy, whoever he is, can get into your _apartment_ without unlocking or breaking down the door?’ Sam said. “I’m not sure how much good a cop could do against him.”

Sadie cupped her hands around her mouth. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know that, either.” Sam admitted. “But as long as you’re here, Sadie, it’s not safe. You need to get out.”

“And go where? Most of my _friends_ live in this building, my family is two states away!” She stared at him. “Should I stay at a hotel?”

“Yeah, great, perfect.” Sam nodded. “Look, I’m staying over on Embarcadero. Think you could find a place close by? In case you need my help.”

Sadie nodded, then bounded suddenly to her feet. “Jordie!”

Sam blinked. “Uh, you—”

“I can’t believe I forgot about him!” Sadie hurried into her bedroom and returned several minutes later with something thick, long and mottled gray-green slung around her body from hips to neck. “I can’t leave Jordie by himself.”

“You named your pet snake after a guy from Star Trek?” Sam almost smiled.

“Don’t judge me.” Sadie approached Sam carefully. Jordie’s head came off her shoulder, pink tongue tasting Sam from a distance. Sam leaned away. “I’ve had him since he was a little baby.” She jostled the snake a bit, setting him slithering around her body. “Where can I keep him?”

Sam hated the idea the minute it came into his head. But if it meant getting Sadie out of harm’s way, he was willing to say it.

“I can take him.” He sighed.

“Could you?” Sadie’s face brightened. “I promise I’ll come over and feed him every day! Hotels aren’t big on snakes these days.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Sam said tightly.

Sadie hurried back to her bedroom to find the snake box, and Sam crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, feeling the hairs on his neck standing on end.

Two days. Less than two days.

The nightmare of his real life had followed him to California.

Again.

And this time, Sadie was in danger.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_December 14 th, 2011_

_Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota_

Castiel was dead.

            That was Dean’s first thought when he flipped over and heard the phone ringing. It couldn’t’ve been later than two in the morning, moonlight still pooling across the floor of Dean’s motel room. He could’ve been staying at Bobby’s and saved himself the money. But after four days of hearing the freaking _sounds_ Castiel made when he was awake, like someone had shoved a hot poker down his throat and ripped his lungs out, Dean had bailed. For his sanity. He’d told Bobby to call him if anything changed, and this was it. Middle of the night, this was it.

            His hand pawed across the bedside table, knocking over a fisherman ornament and a cheeseburger wrapper, and finally latched onto the phone. He connected the call as he brought the phone to his ear.

            “Look, I ain’t the mushy type,” He said groggily. “But please tell me the poor bastard died in his sleep.”

            There was a weighted silence. “Is Cass _dead_?”

            Dean blinked his eyes open with surprise, then sat up. “Sam?”

            “What happened? Why aren’t you at Bobby’s?”

            “Same reason you aren’t.” Dean rubbed his bloodshot eyes and squinted at the clock. Quarter to two. “Couldn’t stand around listenin’ to Cass gettin’ his ass kicked by whatever screwed him up.”

            “I’m sorry, Dean.” Sam said quietly, and Dean could just picture his I-Wish-I-Could-Ease-Your-Pain face. He hated that face.

            “I’m guessin’ you didn’t call me after your bedtime to check up on our little angel.” Dean said dryly, getting up and going to the mini-fridge for a beer. “What’s goin’ on, Sam?”

            “You and Bobby dig anything up on the Rakshasa yet?”

            Dean smirked as he kicked the fridge shut. “You just can’t leave work at home, can ya, Sam? Thought you were on vacation.”

            “I was.” Sam sighed. “Dean, I think it followed me.”

            Dean stopped in the motion of uncapping the beer. “ _Followed_ you?”

            “Yeah. And not just me. Jessica’s _cousin_. I smelled it in her apartment. So did she.”

            “You move her?”

            “Yeah. She’s safe. But Dean, if this thing wants something from her, we’ve gotta stop it. Now. Before it hurts her.”

            “All right, all right, cool your engines, Sam.” Dean pulled out the laptop and booted it up. “Bobby went through all the lore on this thing. Some of it’s bogus.”

            “Give me everything you got.” Sam said.

            “All right: there’s the allergy to brass, uh, they’re vulnerable to sunlight, stronger at night—”

            “The Rakshasa was following Sadie at night.”

            “Sadie?”

            “Uh, the girl. Jess’s cousin.”

            “Oh, sure. Jess’s cousin.” Dean nodded distractedly, scrolling down the page he’d bookmarked. “Some legends say eating rice pudding over a bird’s nest’ll ward the thing off.” He shook his head. “Where the hell do people come _up_ with this stuff?”

            “Dean.”

            “Right.” He forced himself to focus and not go off on a mental tangent about pointless fake methods of banishment. “Well, you can burn ’em. Nothing we’ve found works better than the brass knife to the heart, though.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Uh, yeah, they can rip people in half? Shapeshift, reanimate fresh dead bodies and make ’em into Revenants, turn invisible. All that stuff that makes our job _so_ much easier. That one we took out a couple years ago must not’ve been that powerful. But the one that’s on your ass is probably chock full of bad monster mojo.” He paused, mouth shrugging down into a frown. “Could be the Alpha.”

“Great.” Sam muttered.

Dean shut the laptop. “This is one bad-ass son-of-a-bitch, Sam.” He sat back on the bed. “You sure you can take it on alone?”

Sam took a deep breath. “I’m good. For now.” He blew out a sigh. “How’s Cass?”

“Last time I checked, he was back to being Mister Comatose. Bobby got him patched up, but whatever happened to him didn’t just happen to his vessel. We’re talking angel blades. Spiritual attacks, Sam.”

“I thought he was going after monsters.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t add up.” Dean glanced at the bedside clock.

“What about Marik?” Sam asked, and Dean recognized that hollow tinge in his brother’s voice that meant Sam was trying to hold in his temper.

“Bupkiss. Bobby’s got his feelers out, but everybody’s favorite kinky Draugr-napping bastard dropped off the map. Hell, he could be in Tanzania again for all we know.” Dean tossed back a swig of beer. “No sign of him summoning up any more Draugrs, though. So that’s a bonus.”

Sam chuckled, the sound distorted. “Tell me about it. I can’t exactly come bail you out right now.”

“Hey. I can handle that ass-wipe. Just worry about yourself.”

“I will, Dean.” There was a pause and a hum of static. “You find out anything about what Isabelle said? About other hunters?”

“No, nothin’ so far.”

Sam sighed. “I gotta go.”

“Sam.” Dean said before his brother could hang up. “Watch your back, all right?”

“Yeah. You got it.”

The line went dead.

Dean clicked the phone off and tossed it on the bed, threw back another mouthful of beer, rinsed his mouth out and spat it into the sink. He was wide-awake now that he’d gotten his required four hours of sleep, and at two in the morning that meant—well, not a lot. Maybe a couple of bars would be open, but drinking by himself in the middle of the night would look just plain pitiful. If Sam was around, Dean would kick him awake and make him go with. Or he’d’ve found some way to trick Castiel into going out for a beer. But since both of those options were out…

“The night is young.” Dean said to the empty air, shrugging his jacket on. “And I’m feelin’ frisky.”

The beater car Bobby had loaned him was functional on every level—which wasn’t unexpected considering it belonged to a man who owned the freaking Wal-Mart of beater cars—but it didn’t even touch the Impala’s grace. It was the difference between Marilyn Monroe and a dug-up dead body, in Dean’s opinion. It also felt a helluva lot like cheating on his baby. At least she was in Sam’s not entirely incapable hands; that still didn’t make Dean feel any better as he started the engine and pulled out from the Rushmore motel, cheapest joint he could find at twenty-nine bucks a night.

Sioux Falls was all but dead at two in the morning; not a college town, not a party city. Hell, it was about as backwater sleepy as you could get. Except there was this tinge of newfound awareness on the air that Dean had noticed every time he’d come back here in the past two years; after Death had raised a group of revenants that had eventually tried to devour the town, there’d been a taste of fear everywhere that wouldn’t fade away. People knew things here that not many other towns saw or even dreamed of. And that was a blessing and a curse.

Dean knew Sioux Falls like the back of his hand; growing up, he’d had one place he could even try to call home, and that was Bobby Singer’s Salvage Yard. Every chance he got, John Winchester had motored through town and dropped his boys off to stay at “Uncle Bobby’s” for a few weeks.

This was where Bobby had homeschooled Dean and Sam through first, second, third, fourth and fifth grades, where he’d taught them math, writing, Latin, Spanish and every scrap of lore their pliable little minds could grasp. This was where Dean had spent weekends when his dad actually took time off, helping him fix the Impala, learning how she worked inside and out. In Sioux Falls, Dean and Sam had carved their names into the upholstery of their car; shoved legos into the vents; gotten a toy soldier stuck in the ashtray. At five years old, Dean had woken up with nightmares in Bobby’s guest room every night, fire crawling across the ceiling in his dreams; he’d grabbed his blankets and pillows and dragged them down the hall to sleep on the floor beside Sam’s crib. And most mornings Bobby would find little Dean in the crib too, arms around his confused baby brother as he slept, always protecting Sam from the shadows.

This was where Dean had taken the Impala for a joyride when he was eight; where he’d had his first kiss. Hell, he’d faced everything here.

Wiley’s Tavern, the place where John had taken Dean for his first beer when he was thirteen, wasn’t too crowded at this time of night. Dean walked across the parking lot, hands deep in his pockets, puffing out jets of icy breath. Winter had settled in at Sioux Falls, and it was packing a sucker-punch. They’d be buried under two feet of snow this time next week.

Inside, the bar was cozy and warm, bright neon glare from Miller Light signs refracting off of the smoke from patrons’ cigars. Dean loped to the counter and dropped into the first empty seat.

“Can I get a beer?” He motioned the bartender, who nodded vaguely in his direction and started foraging under the counter. Dean sat back in his chair and looked up at the enormous television screen balanced precariously on the shelf behind the bar counter: news reports were coming in of strange murders along a stretch of highway between Minnesota and the southern edge of Michigan. Frowning, Dean tried to catch a strain of the report through the hum of Bob Marley from the jukebox.

“—these horrific, unexplained attacks.” The newscaster was saying. “So far, fifteen dead, and no reports of any leads. Police are correlating their searches through all three states inside the Interstate-Ninety, Ninety-Four corridor. No word yet as to how the attacks were carried out, but the police say they do suspect a common attacker in all fifteen cases. More to come as the story develops.”

“That’s a load of crap.” Someone called from a booth in the back of Wiley’s. “I have an uncle lives up in Minnesota. Says he saw one of the bodies.”

“This oughta be good.” Dean muttered, catching the beer the bartender slid toward him. “Thanks.” He popped the top and took a drink, steeling himself for the kind of nasty acid rumors that always started in a circle of drunks.

“So, what’d this uncle o’ yours see?”

“Said the body was all chewed up. _Ate_ up, nice and slow.”

“Like some wild animal?”

“Maybe. Weird thing is, no animals around that area, it’s too residential, y’know? Just people.”

Dean set the beer down and clenched his fist around it, hard, hard enough to send a shiver of tension through the glass.

Eaten-up bodies in three different states.

“This uncle.” He swiveled around in the bar stool to face the booth were three men sat, nursing bourbons and half-tanked expressions. “He said the bodies got _eaten_?”

“It was cannibals, man.” The man slurred.

His friends laughed. “Boy, you are drunk!”

That was pretty obvious. Dean also wasn’t sure the guy was too far off the mark. He turned back to face the bar counter, chugged back the beer and set it aside. “Can I get another one?” The bartender nodded and brought the second one over. “Hey, you hear anything on the news about any more attacks up near Michigan?”

“Hear about crimes in Detroit every other day.” The bartender grunted. “Otherwise, we don’t get nothin’.”

“’Cept for all the dog attacks!” One of the drunks interrupted. “Illinois, last week, remember?”

“Oh, yeah! Whole city’a mutts turnin’ on their families. Animal control’s still out lookin’ for ’em, right? Callin’ it rabies or some damn thing.” They dissolved into laughter.

Dean didn’t find the situation all that hilarious. His hand clenched into a fist where it rested against his leg.

Not dogs. Skinwalkers, sleeper cells changing their families. Dean didn’t have much doubt what was being it, either.

Monsters tail-spinning, losing composure because Sam and Dean had thwarted their plans, whatever they were, hinging on Purgatory opening and _something_ getting out. It was pure base animal instinct: cornered, no way out, they exploded. They lashed out and it didn’t matter who or what got caught on this flailing claws and snapping teeth.

It was starting. It was starting all over again and he was sitting on his ass drinking beer alone in a bar.

Dean finished his second, slapped down a relative amount of change on the counter, and headed back outside. The cold wind woke up whatever part of him was still asleep; he drove to the outskirts of town and beyond, slowing to a crawl when he reached the gate of Bobby’s yard. He wove the small car expertly between overshadowing stacks of gutted dirty automobiles and finally reached the house.

He let himself in; Bobby never locked the front door. He knew the things he couldn’t take down in one swipe were too powerful to use doors, anyway.

Bobby wasn’t in his usual spot, poring over the ancient books scattered across his desk, but that wasn’t exactly unexpected; Dean pulled open the fridge the next room over, rustled up half a chicken-bacon-ranch sandwich and walked into the study. The lore books were all open to pages about the same things: Rakshasa, Draugrs and Purgatory. Typical cheerful end-of-the-world type crap.

Dean heard a muffled thump and a door groaned open somewhere to his left; he looked up from one of the books as Bobby clumped up the stairs, wiping something dark and blotchy off on his pant legs. He stopped when he caught sight of Dean.

“Is that my sammich?” He demanded with righteous outrage. Dean looked down at it wide-eyed, then shrugged. “I was savin’ that, ya damn mooch!”

“I’ll pay you back.” Dean said with his mouth full.

“Can’t replace a perfect sammich.” Bobby muttered. “Ungrateful little…” He barged past Dean and went to the fridge, still muttering under his breath.

“Can this wait?” Dean asked loudly. Then, more quietly, “How’s Cass?”

Bobby hesitated with one hand on top of the fridge door, ready to swing it shut again when he realized the shelves were all but stripped bare.

“He’s,” Bobby sighed and Dean could _hear_ him rolling his eyes. “Still holdin’ on, I guess. He’s one tough little cuss, lemee tell ya that.” He shut the fridge. “Won’t know how bad off he is until he wakes up and tells me where else it hurts. _If_ he wakes up.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean leaned against the desk. “Where’d the blood come from?”

“What, this?” Bobby turned to face Dean, gesturing to the rust-colored stains on his legs. “He started bleedin’ again around sundown. Got real bad for a while.”

“And you didn’t call me?” Dean demanded.

“Patchin’ up wounds is a one man job, Dean.” Bobby retorted. “I didn’t need you comin’ around here, hoverin’ over me like some mother hen scared half outta its mind.”

“I don’t hover!” Dean protested.

“Aw, ya do to and you know it.” Bobby scoffed. “Whenever it’s me or Sam or Cass or anyone else you care about that gets hurt, you’re clingier’n a baby with abandonment issues.”

Dean smirked. “I _am_ a baby with abandonment issues.”

Bobby scowled, clearly unamused. “You wanna bottle and a blankie?”

Dean cracked out the soulful eyes. “You could burp me.” Bobby reached into the drawer for the meat cleaver. “Ah, Bobby, c’mon. Okay? Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, boy, we got ourselves a dying angel and your brother’s outta town. Not to mention all the attacks croppin’ up across the States. Now ain’t the time for you to try bein’ hilarious.”

“’Least I don’t gotta try very hard.” Bobby slid the cleaver out and Dean held up both hands in a calming gesture. “Whoa, all right, I spoke too soon.” He wadded up the sandwich wrapper and lobbed it into the garbage can. “What’ve you got?”

Bobby tossed the meat chopper back into the drawer and joined Dean at the desk, turning one of the books around so he could skim it with a glance.

“Lore on whatever they were trying to bust outta Purgatory is pretty vague, but I keep coming across one phrase, over and over again.” Bobby leaned his flat hands on the desk. “Mother of All.”

“Mother of All.” Dean echoed blankly; then he flipped one a grin. “I think I saw that one once. It was this porno about this woman who ran a harem—”

Bobby cleared his throat significantly and Dean shifted from foot to foot.

“This ain’t a joke, Dean.”

“Obviously.” Dean mumbled. “So what is she? It?”

“From what I can gather she’s exactly what she sounds like. Mother of All monsters.” He perched on the edge of the desk, facing Dean with a shrug. “Everybody’s gotta start somewhere, same way as every piece’a lore made sense to someone, sometime. And that’s what the dragons wanted on the loose up here.”

“Okay, but we stopped her from getting out, right?” Dean arched his eyebrows. “So what’s the big deal?”

“You forget why Cass is downstairs _bleedin’_ to death?” Bobby snapped. “Just because _she_ didn’t slip through doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. Something got outta there, Dean. And judging by the state that angel is in, it’s somethin’ beyond awful.”

“Okay, sounds like you’ve got an idea.”

Bobby shook his head. “Not even close. Book I found says Mother can create monsters out of thin air.”

“What, you mean like, draw an army of vamps and snap her fingers, make ’em come to life?” Dean asked.

“That’s bein’ optimistic. I’m sayin’ she can _create_ monsters, Dean, stuff you and I ain’t even heard of. She thinks it up and, _boom_ , there it is.” Bobby shook his head. “It’s like givin’ God-powers to some little kid with an…overactive imagination. Now, she’s been on lockdown in Purgatory for longer than anyone can remember; no way of tellin’ what she’s cooked up while she was trapped in there.”

“Well, that definitely makes her _the_ scariest freak we ever faced.” Dean said. “Lucky for us, I am _all_ scared out.” He spread his arms briefly and grinned, then dropped them back to his sides. “You turn on the news lately?”

“Eh.” Bobby shrugged.

“Yeah, well, you should.” Dean walked over to the couch beneath the window, sat down and rubbed his face in his hands; getting wired up for driving and loading alcohol on an empty stomach was making him tired again. “String of murders on an interstate between Minnesota and Michigan.”

“Well that ain’t good.” Bobby sighed.

“Gets better. Coupla chuckleheads at some bar were talkin’ about _dog_ attacks.”

Bobby picked up his head to stare at Dean. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

Dean shot him a You-Wanna-Tell-Me-More? look, which Bobby answered mutely. Dean sighed. “I ain’t a psychic, Bobby.”

“Could be werewolves.” Bobby said.

“I don’t think so.” Dean rested his elbows on his knees and met Bobby’s gaze grimly. “Skinwalkers.”

“Aw, hell.” Bobby’s face scrunched with disgust. “Lucky’s type?”

Dean rolled his eyes at the reminder of the Skinwalker they’d encountered while Sam was soulless. Put a whole new spin on the saying about man’s best friend. “Think I should drive out and take a look?”

“What, and run the risk of runnin’ into whatever slipped through that gate? Without any _backup_?” Bobby demanded. “Look, I may not be Castiel’s biggest fan, but there ain’t no way in hell I can just up an’ _leave_ him at this point. Can’t let you go after a pack’a Skinwalkers on your own either.”

“You asking me to stay?” Dean gazed up at him, waiting, maybe itching for an argument. Just itching for _something_ to happen.

“Dean, you’re a grown man. I ain’t the boss’a ya. But you gotta use your _head_. From what I hear, you and Sam barely made it out of the last Skinwalker case alive. You really think it’s such a great idea, takin’ this one on alone?”

Dean let the silence get uncomfortable while he tossed around different possibilities in his head. He finally sat back, slinging one arm along the back of the couch. “No. It’s a crap plan. But so’s sittin’ around here waiting for Cass to die and Sam to come back.”

Bobby shut the lore book and walked into the kitchen; he came back with two beers, tossed one to Dean and sat on the couch beside him.

“Dean, every plan we got is crap.” Bobby said after a few minutes of silence. “Truth is, books tell us nothin’. We don’t know what the hell we’re up against. So don’t try playin’ ‘mister-tough-guy-in-charge’ with me. I know you’re scared of this thing, whatever it is, same as the rest of us.”

“Can we not do this now?”

“Hear me out, Dean.” Bobby insisted. “With some shady monster on the loose, and all those Alpha armies tossed cheeks to the wind, things are gonna get bad. Real bad. No tellin’ what they’ll do now that the master plan fell through. Remember the demon army after you iced Azazel?” Dean looked away uncomfortably. “But we gotta keep our heads down and take it from the flanks, ya hear me? No sense tryin’ to take this baddie head-on.”

“So you ask me to _defy_ my _very nature_.” Dean said sarcastically. Then, more seriously: “It’s cool, Bobby. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, well, meantime—”

One of the sundry phones on the wall beeped, filling the entire upstairs with its annoying echo. Bobby got to his feet muttering, “All hours of the night. If that’s Rufus, I’ll shoot ’im myself.” He stormed out into the kitchen.

Dean got up and started riffling through the bookshelves just to give himself something to do; he’d seen Bobby going through every single book at least once in his life, and Dean knew for a fact there were dozens more stashed in every corner of this house. Hell, they were buried so deep Dean sometimes wondered how Bobby always managed to find the right one.

A distant clatter from under his feet grabbed Dean’s attention, jerking his head around. He looked at the stairs; it definitely sounded like there was movement in the basement.

“Bobby.” Dean said. The answer he got was Bobby talking to someone else—pretending to be a CIA executive this time.  Dean caught a glimpse of him with the phone pinned under one ear, writing down information.

Another rattle of movement, so close this time that Dean felt it in the soles of his boots. Beer in hand, he headed for the stairs, clomping slowly down into the darkness of the cellar, stopping to listen on the bottom step.

He didn’t hear anything else, didn’t feel any cold spots or smell anything unusual. Still cautious, Dean slid an iron crowbar from a hook on the wall and followed the source of the sound to the place he knew it’d come from: the panic room, right underneath Bobby’s study. Dean slid back the hatch over the window to take a look; he didn’t see anything strange inside.

The bed was empty.

Throwing back the bolt, Dean heaved the door open.

Castiel was sprawled face-first on the floor, half-tangled in his trenchcoat like a drunk who’d tried to get dressed and ended up putting his pants on his over his head.

“Cass!” Dean tossed the crowbar down and grabbed the angel’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “Hey, hey. Hey! Cass!” Dean shook him a little bit. “Look at me.” Castiel picked his head up a few inches; he was conscious, at least. “You all right?”

“Dean. Where am I?” Castiel asked foggily.

“Bobby’s panic room. C’mon, man, you gotta take it easy. You’re gonna rip your…” He trailed off, realizing what Castiel had been hiding when he threw his trenchcoat on. “Son of a bitch, you tore out your stitches.”

“It’s nothing of import.” Castiel was staring at the door like he wanted to bolt, like an animal in a cage that finally saw a way out.

“Nothing of import, my ass.”

“Correct. That is not of import, either.”

“What’re you, delirious?” Dean muttered, half-dragging Castiel back to the cot and shoving him down on it. “Your mojo’s never gonna come back if you don’t sit down and relax for five minutes, all right?”

“Dean.” Castiel hauled himself up onto one elbow. “You don’t understand. I am _useless_ here. My powers are ineffective. I am worse than human.”

“What is it with you angel, demon guys and that freakin’ superiority complex?” Dean stepped back and finally got a good look at Castiel’s face—tinged yellow, drenched in sweat, hollowed out. His eyes narrowed. “Dude. Are you even _sane_ right now?”

Castiel’s feverish blue eyes pinned on him. “Kill me, Dean.”

Dean froze. “Come again?”

“Take my Angel Knife. Stab me. Put an end to this.”

Dean backed toward the door. “I’m gonna get Bobby, let him patch you up. You’ll be fine, Cass.”

“Dean.” Castiel struggled to sit up but sank back, strength sapped. “Kill me, Dean. I’m begging you, as a friend—kill me now, before it—”

He started making those damned freaking _sounds_ again, right before Dean shut the door. The sounds escalated to screaming by the time Dean hit the top of the stairs, where he almost collided with Bobby.

“The hell’s goin’ on down there?” Bobby demanded. Dean kept walking. “Dean!”

“He’s hallucinating or something. I dunno, Bobby.” Dean stopped in the doorway, hand flat on it, head bowed. “You need me, you know where to find me.”

“Dean. Wait.”

Dean walked outside and headed for the car.

The minute he slammed the driver’s side door shut, Dean felt something familiar and buried clawing its way out of his insides. He wanted to crank the engine, gun it, and run. He wanted to run as far from all of the crap as he could, as far as this car would take him. Then he’d ditch it and keep running. Until he ran out of dry ground. And who the hell knew, after that. Maybe he’d start swimming.

Dean had felt this way before: after he’d escaped from Hell. Remembering the things Alistair had made him do. The things he’d _chosen_ to do to get himself off the rack. He’d wanted to take an axe to his head once or twice to dig the memories out. And when that didn’t seem like a viable option, he’d wanted to run, so hard and so fast that no one would ever catch him. Not monsters. Not angels. Nobody.

But the thing he’d wanted to run from had been with him everywhere he went, sitting heavy on his chest. It was himself. It was the pressure hanging over his head. Bits and pieces of everything; it made him wonder how his dad had made it twenty-two years hitting this job head-on. Even growing up in it, Dean still felt like he was backsliding half the time. Like right now.

Dean thumped his forehead against the steering wheel, then yanked the door open, climbed out and slammed it again. He paced back and forth on the gravel path that wound through an otherwise impassible ocean of broken cars. He remembered the times him and Sam would hide in the salvage yard, flat on their backs where Bobby and John couldn’t find them, and get lost. For hours.

Getting lost sounded great right now.

He hopped up on the hood of the nearest car and leaned back on the windshield, arms tucked behind his head. The sky looked huge from down here, and totally clear. Didn’t make it hard to believe maybe God was out there somewhere, even if Dean had never seen him; even if most of the freaking _angels_ hadn’t.

 _Do you know how many stars there are, Dean?_ Castiel had asked him that in Essex, right before Sam had scratched the wall. Right before Castiel had bailed to go find those monsters. Dean hadn’t really thought about it then, but right now it looked like the whole sky was full of them. “Man, if you’re out there, if you’ve got your thinking cap on, Cass could use some serious help.”

The jingle of his ringtone cut through the end of Dean’s prayer. He hesitated before going for the phone.

“God doesn’t use a cell phone, right?’ He muttered, sliding it out of his pocket. Then he smirked. “Not unless God’s a six-foot-four sasquatch.” He flipped the phone open. “Just can’t live without me?”

“Dean, I need your help.” Sam’s tone had changed; from the quiet control of their earlier conversation, he sounded totally wired. Dean sat up against the windshield.

“Sam?”

“Sadie’s definitely got a tail. And I don’t think it’s just the Rakshasa.”

Dean switched the phone to his other ear and hopped off the hood of the car. “What’ve you got?”

“The weather’s crazy out here, Dean. Lightning storms going on for…six, seven hours without stopping.” Dean heard a report of thunder on the line so loud it made his ear buzz. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You thinkin’ omens?” Dean hurried toward the house.

“I’m thinking something bigger.” The phone crackled with static as though it was changing hands.

“So what makes you think this Sadie girl’s got somethin’ to do with it?”

“First storm was over Stanford while we were at her apartment. I was listening to the radio? It’s been going on like this all night. The worst of it’s right over an intersection: Ramona and Hamilton.”

“Let me guess.” Dean said, taking the porch steps two at a time and flinging open the screen door. “That’s where she’s stayin’?”

“I’m on my way over right now.” Sam replied grimly. “Demon storms don’t get this big, Dean. It’s like end-of-the world weather.”

“What, you mean like _Lucifer_ bad?”

“Just about.”

Dean pulled the phone from his ear for a second. “Bobby!” He put it back up. “What do you need that you don’t already have?”

“Until I know what I’m up against? Not really sure.”

Dean yanked a duffle bag out of the closet at the top of the stairs and headed to the makeshift armory on the first floor; Bobby had moved it upstairs from the panic room when they’d locked Sam in to detox from demon blood. “All right, anything else I should know about?”

“Uh, lightning’s dry. No rain. So we’re probably not dealing with something that’s a weather-shifter. It’s just,” He laughed nervously. “It’s a _lot_ of lightning, Dean.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” Dean started flinging everything in sight into the bag: cans of rock salt, a couple of guns, a satchel full of knives. “You’re a hundred percent sure this isn’t just some freak storm?”

“I lived in California for a few years, Dean. I know the weather around here. Yeah, we’ve had freak storms before, but,” He could almost hear Sam shaking his head. “This one’s different.”

Dean zipped the duffle bag shut and turned around, almost running smack into Bobby, who was standing in the doorway with blood all over his hands.

“This better be good.” Bobby snapped.

Dean hit the speaker button. “Sam, you’re on speaker.”

Bobby shot Dean a perplexed look. “Sam?”

“Hey, Bobby. Look, I’m in California…something’s up. What monsters do you know that can affect lightning?”

Bobby inflated his cheeks with a deep breath, then puffed it out. “There’s a few. How bad a storm are we talkin’?”

“End of the world,” Sam and Dean said in synchrony. Bobby rolled his eyes.

“Lemee finish patchin’ up our jailbreak angel and I’ll see what I can find.” Bobby headed back for the stairs.

Dean clicked the speaker off and put it back to his ear. The whole line was droning with static. “Sam, you still there?”

“I gotta go, Dean. I’m almost to the hotel.”

“Wait a second!” Dean protested. “Where are you _exactly_ , Sam?”

Sam parroted off an address and Dean scrawled it on his hand with a Sharpie from Bobby’s desk. “Call me when you’re in town.”

“You got it.” Dean capped the marker and tossed it back onto the desk, grabbing the cell phone again. “And Sam? Watch yourself.”

“Trying to.” Sam sounded strained. “Hurry, Dean.” The call dropped.

“Bobby!” Dean called over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “I gotta motor. Call me when you’re done with Cass!”

“On it, Dean.”

As he slid behind the wheel of Bobby’s clunker car and punched the engine to life, Dean realized he was grateful for a case he could handle, and he was a little relieved to be on his way to reunite with Sam.

Things felt saner when they had each other’s backs.


	4. Chapter 4

_December 14 th, 2011_

_Embarcadero Road_ _, Palo Alto, California_

The hardest part for Sam was waiting.

After he called Dean and filled him in—while Sadie wrestled Jordie into his travel box and loaded him into her car—and followed Sadie to the Cardinal Motel to make sure she was safe, Sam drove back to the abandoned house on Embarcadero and spent an hour at war with a portable generator to power Jordie’s aquarium, nervous with the snake’s eyes pinned on him every step of the way. Finally, sweat-soaked and tired and sore, he headed back out to the Impala, cranked the radio on and lounged across the front seat, watching the striations of lightning bursting over the horizon. A grainy hot wind blew through the open window; Sam twisted around, shucked off his shirt and kicked his boot up on the windowsill, closing his eyes.

Yeah, he hated waiting. But even so, having a few minutes just to breathe…it was the kind of illusion even a djinn couldn’t articulate perfectly. It was something Sam had used a shield for survival ever since that Christmas Eve when Dean had told him what their father really did for a living, that little piece of honesty that had blown Sam’s world wide open. Calling dad a superhero had been a mixed message: John Winchester had been part man, part monster. Loyalty wrapped in layers of revenge. Sam had loved and hated him. And he still looked in the mirror some days and thought it was his dad staring back at him. Part man. Part monster.

The chaos of the day finally eased and Sam relaxed, chin sinking onto his chest. Now that he was alone, just the sound of Blind Faith’s “Can’t Find My Way Home” humming the background, his thoughts started spilling over the instinct that had been dragging him kicking and screaming since he’d walked into Sadie’s apartment.

It was finally sinking in that he was minutes away from the place where Jessica had died. And more than that, he was keeping tabs on a member of her family. After five years, it felt surreal; more than that, it felt like a piece of the nightmares he’d had for months after she’d died. He half-expected to wake up and find out it was part of some psychic vision, that the whole Apocalypse had been a horrifically vivid mind-trip.

Minutes slid by and he didn’t wake up. Sam sighed and tented his fingers on his forehead; his headache was coming back, the one that had been following him around like a shadow since he’d scratched the wall around his memories in Essex. He hadn’t tried anything since then, mostly because the last two weeks had been total chaos and he hadn’t had much time to think about it.

That didn’t stop memories of Lucifer from haunting the edges of his dreams every single night.

The song on the radio ended and commercials started in. A shudder of thunder snaked down the street and Sam cracked his eyes, propped himself up on one elbow and looked out the windshield.

The lightning was closer, maybe a few miles out; there were flashes every few seconds so vibrant that the impressions burned on the backs of Sam’s eyes when he blinked. He scooted behind the wheel and turned up the radio.

“—not sure how else to describe it, Cindy. We’re talking storm of the century, and it’s been going on for about seven hours now. Five house fires have been reported already between Everett and Channing Avenue and that’s just about a six block radius! We’re looking at delays on the Caltrain line that could set commutes back by as much as three _hours_ —”

Sam clicked the radio off and sat in silence for a few seconds, listening to a salvo of thunder that shivered up through the Impala and settled inside his chest.

“Six blocks,” He muttered to himself.

The atlas was spread out over the backseat, covering the faded brown stain where Dean had scrubbed Castiel’s blood out of the upholstery. Sam grabbed the map and held it up to the windshield, letting the light from the streetlamp at the end of the block highlight the routes through the thin paper.

Six blocks. Five house fires. One building at the center.

Sam shoved the atlas onto the floor, threw the Impala into reverse and hit the speed-dial for Dean.

 

 

“Sadie!” Sam knocked on her door, bracing his arm against the wall above his head. “Sadie, it’s Sam! Open the door!”

Sam heard a sniff behind him and looked over his shoulder; an old woman was sticking her head out of a room further down the hall, looking at Sam with so much disdain she might as well have _known_ he’d started the Apocalypse a few years ago. Sam tried a tight, apologetic smile and she ducked back into her hovel, slamming the door shut so hard one of the ugly watercolor paintings rattled on the wall.

Sam knocked on the door again. “Sadie?”

The door swung in and Sam lurched back upright, suddenly awkward, a flush of color sweeping up the back of his neck. Towel around her body, towel around her hair, Sadie stared at him with luminous green eyes. Steam poured out of the bathroom.

“Sam?” She demanded. “I was in the shower! What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry. Can I come in?” Sam tried to look anywhere but at her, making a cursory case of the room behind her from what little of it he could see. “It’s kind of important.”

“Define important.” Sadie insisted, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. It didn’t help Sam’s efforts to avoid looking at her when she did that. “You said you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“I think…” Sam trialed off. “Something’s coming.”

“You mean _someone_.”

“No, I mean _something huge_.” Thunder spit through the bowels of the building and finally focused Sam’s attention on the job. “I think whoever was at your apartment followed us here.”

Sadie’s eyes widened. “Please tell me you’re joking. We did all that doubling back on the drive over—you said we lost him!”

“Yeah, I thought we did.” Sam said. Sadie sidestepped to let him in and Sam went straight to the window, twitched the curtains aside and looked out. The lightning was blistering across the sky so fast and so frequently it would’ve put an epileptic into a fit. As it was, Sam felt a little dizzy looking at it, and let the thin lace fringe fall back into place. He stood as still as possible, breathing deeply.

No cold spots that he could feel and no smell of sulfur still. None of the rotten-flesh stench of a Draugr, either. Everything felt normal except for the lightning storm, the air so electrically charged Sam felt his hairs standing on end.

“What is going _on_ , Sam?” Sadie kicked the door shut and stood rubbing her bare arms. Sam flicked a glance at her, then felt himself blushing and looked away.

“Could you, uh…could you put some clothes on?”

“What? _Oh_!” She gasped and Sam heard her scrambling for the bathroom. The minute the door clicked shut, Sam did a thorough sweep of the room for signs of ectoplasm. Finding nothing, he pulled the tall cylinder of salt from his inside jacket-pocket and poured a thin stream at the base of the door and window; thankfully there were just those two entrances and exits. It would make the room easier to defend if it came down to that.

Sam was sitting on the dusty couch pushed back against one wall, listening to the longest growl of thunder he’d ever heard in his life and counting the seconds—it had been going nonstop for seventeen—when Sadie padded out to join him, wearing sweats with her damp hair tangled over one shoulder.

“Sorry about earlier.” She sat on the couch at his feet. “Getting stalked by some freak kind of makes me forget I’m naked.”

“It’s no big deal.” Sam said. “I called my brother for backup on my way over.”

“You really think he can help?”

“Dean,” Sam began, and broke off with a smile. “Knows his stuff.”

“I sure hope so, because this stalker thing is _really_ creeping me out.” Sadie tucked her hair behind her ear and stared at the floor.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam said.

“You just did.”

He nodded, still smiling, then got serious. “Look, can you think of _anyone_ who’d want to hurt you, Sadie? Anyone who might have a grudge against you or someone you’re close to?”

Sadie shrugged so high her shoulders brushed her earlobes. “It’s Stanford, you know? Everyone’s pretty mature. I mean, not _everyone_ , but it’s not some crap community college. Can’t get along with every single person in the school, but it’s not like I have _enemies_.”

“What about rivals? Any people you’re up against for awards or internships?”

“Not right now, not really. We’re all kind of nerds and techies, so it’s more like a brotherhood type thing.” She pressed her hands against her cheeks and closed her eyes. “What’s happening to me, Sam? What if someone tries to kill me?”

“Hey.” Sam sat up and leaned toward her, one arm resting on the back of the couch. “No one’s getting near you, Sadie. I promise.”

She slanted a look at him sideways. “You seem…really sure.”

“That’s ’cause I am.” Sam smiled encouragingly. “As long as I’m around, you’ll be fine. I swear.”

Sadie nodded, then wiped her nose on her sleeve and dropped her gaze back to the floor. “There was this…this one guy.”

Sam curled one hand into a fist, then relaxed it again. “Who was it?”

“Max. Um, Max Cambor? He was in my psyche class beginning of this semester. I thought maybe he had a thing for me, he was following me everywhere. About two weeks ago we ended up at the same party at some guy’s house. I got into a fight with my friend and Max followed me out.” She shrugged again, sheepishly this time. “One thing led to another and we…” She trailed off, flushing.

“‘ _Did it_?’” Sam asked jokingly.

“Oh, God, no.” Sadie scrunched her face with disgust. “We kissed. Or, he kissed me. I slapped him in the face and tried to run away.”

“Good for you.”

“It didn’t turn out that way.” Sadie swept her hair to the other side of her neck, revealing a long raw reddish-pink scar from her hairline to the top of her shoulder. Sam was surprised he hadn’t seen it at dinner, but thinking back he realized she’d kept it covered the whole time. “He chased me and threw me on the ground; I hit a piece of a broken pipe buried in the grass and sliced my neck open.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember much after that, but I think I probably should’ve died. This was my first day back to school after it happened.”

“Well, for the record I think it’s pretty brave of you, coming back here knowing you have to face him.” Sam said. “Have you seen him on campus?”

“No, he wasn’t in class. But everyone was talking about it, you know? I think he got scared and skipped out.” She chewed on her lower lip for a few second. “Do you really think Max could be the one stalking me?”

It was all he could go on at this point. Sam reviewed the facts: lightning storm, stalker behavior. And the smell of freesia in Sadie’s apartment. It gave him a few theories, most of them with lore so all-inclusive that Sadie herself could’ve fit the description if he twisted the facts the right way.

“I’m not really sure,” He said in answer to her question. “Listen. You don’t really know me, but…trust me when I say this kind of thing is sorta my specialty. Do you mind if I crash on the floor tonight?”

Sadie looked at him closely, then blurted out, “Are you an angel?”

Sam sat back, not really sure if he’d just been insulted or complimented. Sadie clapped a hand to her mouth.

“I’m so sorry! That’s just a stupid superstition, sorry.” She rubbed a hand through her hair and shook her head slowly. “Sorry.”

“Who, uh…who taught you that?” Sam asked carefully. “That whole ‘angel’ thing?”

Sadie dropped her gaze. “Jess did.”

Sam didn’t know what made him feel worse: the look on Sadie’s face when she said it, or realizing his dead girlfriend had believed the same lie his mother had. The angels weren’t watching over them; they were toying with them. You couldn’t count on any one of them in times of crisis, and Sam could count on one hand the ones he had any faith in at all.

“I’m not an angel,” He said. “Believe me. But I can help you.”

“Considering my history with guys? I should really say no.” Sadie pursed her lips and shrugged. “Jess trusted you. That’s good enough for me.” She got to her feet. “There were some spare blankets in the bathroom closet.”

“Thanks.” Sam waited for her to leave, then got to his feet and pulled out his cell phone, stepping out into the hall while he dialed.

“Sam, I’m still in South Dakota.”

“I figured. Just wanted to run something by you.”

“I’m listening.” Dean said.

“How powerful would a witch have to be to control weather like this?” Sam pitched his voice low.

“Uh, really _freakin’_ powerful. Why? You got somethin’?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Sadie had a stalker at the beginning of the semester, some guy named Max Cambor. They got into an argument, he tried to kiss her, she got hurt. Now he’s not showing up for class.”

“What, you think he’s using some kinda black magic to get to her?”

“Maybe.” Sam pushed a hand back through his dark hair. “I don’t know what else this could be, Dean. She’s,” He glanced over his shoulder toward the door. “She’s pretty ordinary. I mean, from what I can tell, her only connection to anything _abnormal_ is…” He broke off, feeling the whiplash of realization freezing him in his tracks.

“Is _what_?” Dean demanded. “Sam?”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, then opened his eyes wide and leaned his weight against the wall. “It’s me, Dean.”

“You wanna elaborate?”

“Sadie is _Jessica’s_ cousin. Whatever’s following her may not be after her directly. What if it’s trying to use her to get to me?”

“You’ve known this girl for, like, a _day_ , Sam. You’re at Stanford, you probably knew half the people around there at some point. Why would a monster go after the friend you just made?”

“She’s—”

“Jessica’s cousin, yeah, heard you the first time. Look, I’m not sayin’ you’re wrong. I’m just sayin’…” Dean hesitated and Sam felt irritation clawing at his throat.

“Just spit it out, Dean.”

“I’m just not sure you’re being objective here, Sam.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“You still feel like what happened with Jessica was your fault. I get it. After what happened with your buddy Brady I’d be kinda worried if you weren’t.”

“Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.” Sam said darkly.

“I just don’t want you runnin’ off half-cocked thinkin’ you need to make up for something, all right?” Dean ignored him. “Can’t change what happened with Jessica, y’know? Doesn’t mean this one’s your fault.”

“So you think I’m paranoid.”

“Oh, _come on_ , Sam!”

“That’s what it sounds like to me, Dean. And for the record, I’m not. I’m just looking at all the options, here.”

“Well, you better throw me a different one. ’Cause I’m not buyin’ that this one’s about you.”

Sam buried his face in his hand.

“Sam.”

“A really powerful demon.” He thumped his head back to stare at the cracked ceiling. “Hyperdrive demons—”

“Make hyperdrive omens.” Dean sounded pleased. “Gettin’ warmer. Anything else?”

“Just one.” Sam squinted his eyes shut for a second.

“You gonna make me beg?”

“It’s kind of a long shot.”

“Again: You gonna make me beg or what?”

Sam almost smiled before the sinking in the pit of his stomach sucked it away. “Raphael always brings storms wherever he goes, right?”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean muttered. “Think he’s found a new meat suit?”

“Could be. Doesn’t explain why Sadie’s involved.”

There was a silence that made Sam’s skin crawl. “Unless Raph’s got his sights on _her_ for his vessel.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Dean, no. Like I said, she’s _normal_.”

“Yeah? So was Jimmy. Now Cass is wearin’ that poor sucker all over the damned place.”

Sam’s protest died coming out of his throat. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

“She believes in angels, Dean. It’s the perfect setup for Raphael. He’ll manipulate her and—”

A clatter from the room brought Sam’s head swinging around. He covered the phone with one hand. “Sadie?”

Something rustled beyond the door. Sam brought the phone back up to his ear. “Dean, I gotta go.”

“Sam!”

He dropped the call, shoved the phone into his pocket and stepped back inside.

Nothing looked out of place; Sam was about to call for Sadie again when he saw the window. It was still shut.

Salt flung all over the couch.

Sam yanked out his gun and stalked toward the door that hid the single bed, where Sadie would be sleeping. Putting his ear to the wall, he heard a muffled silence.

And then someone’s fast, terrified breathing.

Sam rocked back and kicked the door open, wedging himself into the doorway before it could bang shut again. His sights found the head of the man standing in front of Sadie, pinning her to the wall with a hand around her throat.

The report of gunfire partially masked Sadie’s scream. The man whipped his head around to glare at Sam, lips yanked back in a hiss. His mouth was a teeming mess of needle-sharp fangs.

Sam had a sudden flash of a brightly-lit, smoky bar; a drink in his hand; seeing Dean pinned against a dumpster, eyes desperate, mouth dripping blood. Not his own blood, it was—

He lowered the gun. “Crap.”

The vampire dropped Sadie and lunged; Sam leaped backward, slammed into the wall and bolted; he had one thought, one thought only that pierced through: _get it away from Sadie_.

            Thumping footsteps told Sam he had the vampire on his tail; he went for the door, flung it open and got a face-full of fangs, breath that smelled like a jar of old pocket change. He ducked the bite from the second vampire and scrambled back past the other one, vaulted the couch in one stride of his long legs and flung himself at the window.

            The glass shattered in a kaleidoscope of silver reflecting lightning. He fell for several breathless seconds, then slammed down on the awning of the hotel and rolled off, hitting the sidewalk on his shoulder and sending a spasm of pain down his arm. He got to his feet, shaking away the white strata of pain erupting behind his eyes, and saw the vampires poised in the window above him; they looked like they were having a heated conversation.

            And then, in a synchronistic movement so fluid it wasn’t natural, their heads swung down toward him.

            Warm, wet scarlet was seeping out of Sam’s shirtfront.

            The first vampire swung out of the window, and Sam moved.

            His boots slapped the pavement and sent vibrations jarring up through his torso and arm as he ran for the Impala. He flung the trunk open and grabbed the first knife his searching hands found; he whirled slashing and caught the first vampire full-on in the face. Howling, it recoiled, but the second replaced it. An iron blow from its arm caught Sam across the chest, flinging him down on the pavement and knocking the breath out of him. He managed to hold on to the knife with the tips of his fingers and brought it up to counter the next blow the vampire aimed; its fist hit the knife, splitting the knuckles. Sam planted his foot into the vampire’s gut and heaved it back against its comrade, then spun up onto his feet, grabbed the jar of Dead Man’s Blood from the trunk and plunged the knife in.

            The vampires halted their advance, eyeing the dripping blade that Sam had angled their way. Sam didn’t goad them, he barely breathed; his gaze flicked from one to the other, waiting for some subtle shift or draw in their stance that would hint at an impending attack.

            A door burst open to Sam’s left. He heard Sadie scream his name, and the vampires broke rank. The first came after him. The other went for her.

            Sam grabbed onto instinct and let his body do the rest; he flung the jar of blood at the retreating vampire and met the other head-on, grabbing it by the shoulders, kneeing it in the gut and swiping at it with the tip of the dagger. Snarling, the vampire leaped aside; Sam was ready. He grabbed it by the neck and drove it up against the door of the Impala, bringing his knife toward its neck—

            A flash. He saw Dean down on his knees, spitting up some dark, putrid-smelling juice, and felt an emotion like sour rotten milk curdling in his gut. _Glee_. Like a kid getting the best present ever for Christmas.

            The memory gripped him for less than three seconds, but it was all the opportunity the vampire needed. It slithered out of his grasp, floored him with a blow to his bleeding side and took off running down the street.

            Winded, dizzied by what he’d seen for a split-second in his mind’s eye, Sam didn’t waste time running the creature down. He walked over to the paralyzed vampire lying in the middle of the street, crouched, and severed its head with a clean swipe from the knife. He stood up, returned to the Impala and replaced the knife, grabbed a can of salt and a jug of gasoline, a match.

            He finally looked at Sadie.

            She was pressed back against the doorway of the motel, hands clapped around her mouth, wide eyes moving from the vampire to him and back again.

            “Sam?” She whispered. “What is that thing?”

            Run ragged, shaking with adrenaline, Sam felt his defenses slip. “It’s a vampire.”

            Sadie’s chest swelled as she took in a deep breath. “Vampires are real?”

            “Trust me, _Twilight_ isn’t all that accurate.” Sam hooked his arms under the vampire’s and dragged it into the alley between buildings. He doused it in salt, just to be safe, and set fire to the body, watching it smolder and smoke away, massaging his bruised, swollen shoulder.

            A throat cleared behind him; eyes stinging from the smoke, Sam glanced around.

            Sadie stepped up to join him, face streaked with tears, rubbing her upper arms against the cold. She stopped beside him and Sam watched the firelight reflecting in her green eyes; he felt the regret sock him in the stomach. The last thing he’d wanted was to drag Jessica’s cousin into this world.

            “So.” Sadie said matter-of-factly, her voice catching. She cleared her throat. “Vampires, huh?”

            Sam half-smiled. “Unicorns are still fake. As far as we know.”

            “ _We_?”

            “My brother and I, we hunt…monsters.” He explained quietly. “Sort of a family business, I guess.”

            “And I thought a family full of construction workers was dangerous.”

            Thrown off guard, Sam cut her a look. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

            “Actually,” Sadie paused. “I think I do. All…all logic tells me you’re totally crazy. But I just had a guy hold me up against a wall while his teeth grew about four inches longer. I’d say that’s unnatural.” She folded her arms and shivered. “Being a mythology minor helps, too.”

            Sam chuckled at that. “Makes sense.”

“Besides,” Sadie’s voice was soft. “Jessica always said you weren’t exactly _Stanford material_ , you know? Not that you weren’t academic. She just mentioned that you had this…kind of warrior quality in you.”

Sam pushed away the thought that maybe he hadn’t been able to hide his life from Jessica as well as he’d always thought. He shed his jacket and draped it around Sadie’s shoulders. “Sorry you had to see that.”

            “Honestly?” She pulled the jacket tight around her shoulders. “I think I’m still processing through—” She broke off, looking at his ribs. “Sam, you’re bleeding!”

            “Just a scratch.” He assured her. “Look, I don’t think it’s safe here anymore. I need you to come with me.” He kicked the smoking remains into a shallow pothole and dragged a dumpster over to hide them. “Police’ll be here soon. I’ll explain everything on the way to my place.”

            “You have a place?”

            He grimaced. “Sort of.”

 

 

            “So you mean, all of that stuff that happened a year ago, the…the flu outbreaks, that town where everyone started shooting each other…that was part of the—?”

            “Apocalypse. Yeah.” Sam squinted against a flourish of lightning in the rearview mirror; it was fading out, the storm finally breaking up, but Sam wasn’t relaxing yet. He still tasted the metallic twang of adrenaline like he’d licked a live car battery. “Angels and demons started it. It was like…one big cosmic tug-of-war.”

            “Mmhmm.” Sadie slid a look his way. “And the angels won?”

            “Not really.” Sam admitted. “Humans did.”

            “How so? I mean, we didn’t even _notice_. Most of us, anyway.”

            “The angels had their prize fighter. So did the demons. Problem was, the showdown? It would’ve wiped out a lot of people. We’re talking millions.”

            “So someone stopped it? Stopped that fight?” Sadie asked. Sam nodded. “Well, that’s good. Um, how did they do it, exactly?”

            It was a loaded question and Sam took his time answering. “This guy, he, uh,” He shook his head. “Kept a promise.”

            Sadie didn’t say anything, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, she rolled her eyes. “That’s it? That’s all it took.” Sam flicked a humorless smile her way. “Really.”

             “Pretty much. The angels had some prophecy about how the righteous man who broke the first seal would be the one who ended the Apocalypse.”

            “Did he?”

            Sam took a deep breath. “Yeah. He did.”

            The Impala munched through the miles to Embarcadero Road and Sam pulled up outside the house, killing the engine. Sadie peered up at the boarded-up windows and the overgrown lawn, frowning. “You live here?”

            Sam bared his teeth in a sheepish expression. “This week.” He started to get out and Sadie laid a hand on his arm.

            “Um. Sam.”

            “Yeah?” He sat back and looked at her.

            “Those vampires. They wouldn’t have any use for a…for a snake, right?”

            Sam repressed a smile; this wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone in danger being more concerned for their pet’s welfare than their own. “Vampires are on a…pretty strict diet. I don’t think Jordie’s a target.”

            “Well, one of those vampires asked me where he was.”

            Chalk that up to another thing he needed to talk to Dean about. “What?”

            “He came in through the window, and when he closed the door the first thing he said was, ‘Where’s your snake, girly?’ I thought it was some kind of joke.”

            “These guys tend to be pretty serious.” Sam shoved the door open and got out. “You’re sure it was Jordie he was asking about?”

            “Sam, I only have one snake.”

            “Right.” Sam opened the door for her. “Well, listen, when we get inside, do me a favor: just…don’t leave the house.”

            “At all?”

            “Not if you can help it.”

            “Is that a monster-hunting thing, or a possessive, controlling thing?”

            “Uh…monster-hunting.”

            Sadie reached over and surprised him by grabbing his hand. “Okay.” She pulled him toward the house. “It feels too open out here. Let’s go inside.”

            Sam followed her, surprisingly happy with the feeling of her hand in his.

            Inside, Sam gave Sadie the only bed, and went into the bathroom to wash out his wounds; the fall had shoved a shard of broken glass in between his ribs. Sam eased it out and stitched the wound himself, drowning it in straight-up whiskey to kill any infection. Then, moving gingerly, he dumped the bloodstained rag from the motel that he’d used as a bandage and his filthy overshirt into the sink and looked at himself in the spider-cracked mirror.

            His face was still bruised but healing from being beaten by the Draugr in Essex, but there was something else bothering him beyond the scars that were practically standard fair in a hunter’s life. It was the memories he could see blazing out like they were trying to get free from behind his eyes. Memories he’d promised Dean he wouldn’t poke at. But they kept coming out anyway.

            He remembered a vampire’s hovel. Sketchy, black-and-white outlines of it. He remembered Dean asking to be killed, to stop him from being a monster. And Sam hadn’t done it. He wasn’t sure why, but it hadn’t been out of love for his brother. Something else had fueled his decision to let Dean live.

            Something that, just touching it on the edges, made him feel sick with shame.

            Sam shoved his dripping hand back through his hair, flicked off the light, and went downstairs. He checked the lines of salt around every door and every window, then went back out to the Impala and grabbed their last two jars of Dead Man’s blood and spread it on the doorposts and windowsills.

            Then he sat throwing a knife from hand to hand, his back to the front door. He could hear Sadie breathing from the bed across the room, and he had a feeling she wasn’t asleep. Just tossing and turning.

            He caught the knife and looked at her through the semi-darkness, the fluorescent glow from Jordie’s aquarium in the corner catching her eyes as she looked back at him, and smiled.

            Sam smiled back languidly and leaned his head against the door.

            It felt good to have someone else here with him tonight.

            And they waited.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_December 15 th, 2011_

_Outside of Sacramento, California_

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a good night’s sleep.

            Hell, he couldn’t remember what it felt like to not be forcing his eyes to stay open. He drove straight through the day on December fourteenth, stopping to refill Bobby’s beater car and his own empty food stock every few hours. Otherwise he was driving, with Metallica in the tape deck cranked up so loud he had a semi-permanent buzz in his ears that didn’t fade even when he was stuck in line at a convenience store for half an hour behind some whiny chick who couldn’t decide if she wanted regular or mentholated cigarettes. And if that wasn’t Hell on earth, it was the next closest thing.

            The sunrise was backing his bumper when he followed the loop outside of Sacramento; that meant he was close to Palo Alto, but if close wasn’t _around the next corner_ , he felt like he was gonna smash this old freaking clunker car into the median and _walk_ the rest of the way.

            Dean’s cell phone vibrated against his leg, stopping his abusive thoughts midstream. He fished it out and checked the Caller ID—and had to live with that all-too-familiar feeling of his stomach taking a nosedive to wrap itself around his ankles and munch in.

            He had two choices: answer it and get his ass chewed out. Don’t answer it, and get his ass chewed out some other time.

            What the hell. He had time to kill before Palo Alto, anyway.

            Dean accepted the call. “Hey, Lis.”

            “Dean?”

            He did a double-take. “Ben? The hell are you doing with your mom’s cell phone?”

            “She doesn’t know I have it. She left it at home last night.”

            “Last _night_?” Dean echoed sharply. “What, she just ditched you?”

            “Not exactly. I’m at a friend’s house.”

            “Okay,” Dean said. “Who’s this friend?”

            “I dunno, some kid from my class. Cody. Mom likes him.”

            “Doesn’t sound like you agree with her.” Dean said. Ben stayed quiet. “Anything I should know about?”

            “It’s mom, Dean. She’s seeing some other guy.”

            Dean crushed out the whiplash of jealousy that noosed his throat. “Yeah, well, adults do that, Ben.”

            “But she’s cheating on you!”

            Dean took that one right in the gut. He’d shoved this kid against a wall, been a real tangible threat to his _life_ , and Ben was worried about Dean getting back-burnered from some Average Joe? “Ben, your mom’s a grownup. She can see other guys if she wants.”

            “So you’re not gonna—you know—get pissed at her when you come home?”

            Dean took a deep breath. All right. So it was up to Lisa to do this kinda stuff, and he had a feeling she’d laid down the law. Which meant Ben wasn’t taking no for an answer; something he’d been doing a lot lately.

            “Ben.” Dean pulled out the This-Is-Serious-So-Listen-Up tone. “I’m not coming home.” There was an awkward pause. “I’m guessin’ your mom already told you that.”

            “I remembered when you came home that one night. You were really messed up. Mom said it was drugs or something, and I get it. But you’re clean, right? So why can’t you come home?”

            “Ben—”

            “Mom would take you back, sh-she took you back before!” Ben said desperately.

            “Ben, listen to me—”

            “I could talk to her! You know, I could soften her up for you.”

            “Ben.” Dean shut his eyes for a second, trying to back-shelve the feeling that he was getting held under. “Look. You’re a great kid. Hell, sometimes I felt like you really were _my_ kid.” He shook his head. “But I’m not the guy you think I am.”

            “I don’t—”

            “Hear me out.” Dean said levelly. “You need someone who can be your old man. Ben, I am _not_ some role model you wanna take to PTA meetings and show off in your classroom. You know that. My dad was a pretty crappy example and I don’t wanna be that for you. You understand me?”

            “You’re not! You’re a good guy, Dean.”

            Dean shifted lanes, giving himself time to think. “The guy who sat at your table, made you scrambled eggs and drove you to school? That wasn’t me, Ben. You wanna know what part was me? That was the part that checked on you five times a night to make sure nothing was trying to _kill_ you.” He couldn’t even say the other things: the time he’d dug up the pipes leading into their house and blessed the water in case demons ever got in the house; the fact that he’d laid strips of iron along the foundation and stashed hex bags in the north, south, east and west corners of both places they’d stayed. Stuff that was supposed to keep them safe; things Ben didn’t need to know

            “So you were protecting us. So what? That’s what dads do!”

            Dean swallowed a few times. “Listen to me, Ben. I’m gonna be there anytime you need me, okay? But I’ll do it as your friend. Not as your dad.” He clenched his jaw for a second. “I’m not your father. Never was. Never will be.”

            “What if I’m not okay with that?”

            “You gotta be.”

            “I’m _not_.”

            “Ben, this isn’t your choice.” Dean said. “Look, your mom and I split because we wanted to keep you safe. Things out here just keep getting worse, and worse. I may go down, but I’m not dragging you two with me.”

            “We were a _family_.”

            Dean chuckled once, emptily. “Somethin’ you gotta understand, Ben. I got two families, all right? Problem is, I can’t protect one of ’em without putting the other one in danger. You get what I’m saying?” He pulled onto the off-ramp leading into Palo Alto. “At the end of the day, I gotta let you and your mom live normal, _sane_ lives, or I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ anymore.”

            “I don’t get it, Dean! What makes your _other_ family so special? Why can’t you stay with us and let them fight the monsters?”

            “Because someone’s gotta have their backs, Ben. I play my cards right, you and your mom stay safe and I protect everyone else.” The honesty felt like it was getting ripped out of him, and he couldn’t stop. Suddenly he was in his dad’s shoes; he was John Winchester breaking the shotgun against the wall, getting down on his knees and apologizing to his son. Dean saw himself through his father’s eyes: just some scared, broken-up little kid who didn’t understand why his family was different. “It’s just how it’s gotta be.”

            “But mom says your other family’s _really_ messed up. She said that guy Bobby is a town drunk and your brother’s, like, some sideshow freak.”

            “Well, your mom’s right.” Dean said dryly. “Both counts.” He shrugged. “They’re my family, Ben. Since a long time before you came along. Sam’s my brother. Bobby’s the closest thing I got to a father. You don’t just walk away from that.”

            “So you’ll walk away from us instead?” Ben demanded. When Dean didn’t answer immediately, he added, “She’s really serious about this guy, Dean.”

            Dean heaved a sigh. “Look, Ben, this isn’t the kinda talk we need to have over the phone, all right? I’m workin’ a case right now. Once it’s over, I’ll drive out to Michigan to meet you guys. Sound good?”

            “Promise you won’t just ignore our calls again?”

            “Yeah, you got it. And, hey, Ben?” He said. “You need anything, you gimmie a call, all right?”

            “I will. Call me back as soon as you can.”

            “You got it.”

            Dean hung up, tossed the phone onto the empty seat beside him and raked a hand down his face. He felt like he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him and kept having to remind himself over and over as he drove that yeah, Lisa _was_ an adult, and they’d split up weeks ago. She could go out on a date and get serious with whoever the hell she wanted. She could get with freakin’ _Rufus_ for all he cared.

            Dean shuddered at that thought and dragged himself back into focus, cranking up the radio for the last fifteen minute stretch. He had crappy convenience store directions on a napkin wedged into the upholstery, some chicken-scratch treasure map he’d gotten from a kid working the counter at the last place he’d stopped at half an hour ago. It definitely took him the long way around, but when he finally got to Embarcadero Road, it wasn’t hard to find the house; it was the only one that was vacated.

            “Subtle, Sam.” He muttered, grabbing his phone. Sam with his soul intact wasn’t all that likely to blow Dean’s head off if he barged into the house, but Dean was playing it safe after all the crap they’d been through.

            The call went straight to voicemail. Not a big deal, except Sam was expecting a call from him. One of the first rules their dad had drilled into their brains when he started training them together: You say you’re gonna be somewhere, you be there. You say you’re gonna do something, you do it. If you don’t, it’d better be because you’re dead or in danger.

            Which meant Sam’s phone being turned off was a big freaking deal.

            Dean pulled his silver-plated gun out of the glove compartment, wedged the door open and stepped out into the dry California air. It flamed up in his lungs right off the jump; Dean hated the west coast.

            The house was falling apart at the seams, roof slanting at the apex, shingles scattered in the weed-choked yard. The wrap-around porch was sagging in places where the wood had rotted through.

            Dean treaded quickly but silently up the porch steps, skirting the hole in the top one, and put his shoulder against the doorframe, leaning around to look through the glass.

            The front room looked pretty empty except for a good-sized bed shoved against the far wall and a huge fish tank plugged into a portable generator. Dean could hear the thing humming and felt it in the soles of his shoes.

            He nudged the screen door open with his toe and laid a hand on the doorknob; the door swung easily inward, creaking a little on its hinges. Gritting his teeth at the noise, Dean slipped inside and trained his sights from corner to corner, waiting for an inevitable monster attack.

            Nothing. Which usually meant something really ugly was about to go down.

            Dean sidestepped over to the aquarium, sweeping his firearm across the room  every few seconds to keep himself covered. He took a look inside the glass case: empty.

            “Huh.” He said under his breath. “Okay, what the hell?” He headed into the next room over, a cramped dining room with one chair near the window. The whole place was dusty; didn’t look like Sam had been hanging around much. There was an unbroken salt line under the window.

            The tinny strains of “Smoke on the Water” blasted suddenly from Dean’s pocket.

            “Ah, crap.”

            The door on Dean’s right exploded inward in a spray of wood chips; something rock solid smacked into his chest, lifting him off his feet and flinging him backward. His back smashed the wall, putting a hole through the crumbling plaster and punching the air out of his lungs. Gasping for breath, Dean dragged himself up onto his hands and knees—threw up his air again when a foot connected with his ribs. A hand grabbed him by the side of his head and bashed it into the corner of the wall, jamming a paroxysm of pain behind his eyes.

            A foot slammed down over his windpipe; stunned, scrabbling, Dean tried to shove it off but couldn’t get purchase on a really slick, slippery shoe. His fingers clawed off, open hand smacking down on a pile of debris. Smoke and shadows seeped into his line of sight. He was choking to death.

            He heard a furious cry and the smash of breaking glass; the weight vanished and he whooped in a deep, rattling breath, eyes and nose streaming, rolling over, curled into himself and coughing. His chest was on fire.

            He heard a snarl, a grunt and then a deep, soaking splatter. Blood showered across his legs. Sucking in air like a dead man come back to life and wiping his face on his arm, Dean hauled himself up into a sitting position inside the crater in the wall.

            There was a headless dead body at his feet.

            Dean stared at it, trying to put the pieces together when a hand grabbed his shoulder, gripped his jacket and hauled him to his feet.

            “Dean. Dean! Hey!” Sam shook him. “You all right?”

            “What the hell was that?” He rasped, nodding at the body. Sam let him go, walked over to the head and peeled back the top lip with his thumb. Needle-sharp teeth protruded from the upper gum, glimmering in the sunlight.

            “Vampire.” Sam said grimly.

            “What, in broad daylight?” Dean rubbed his shoulder. “Shouldn’t he be gettin’ his beauty sleep?”

            “I guess he had a grudge.” Sam shoved up onto his feet. “He was tracking us yesterday. I took out his partner, but obviously he found us.”

            “Super. When’d this one show up?”

            “About an hour ago?” Sam shoved his hands into his pockets. “I saw him casing the house, so I reinforced the Dead Man’s Blood on the door. Figured the smell would keep him away. You must’ve broken the line when you came in.” He looked apologetic. “Sorry I missed your call.”

            “Yeah, me too.” Dean gestured to his swollen arm pointedly and for half a second Sam looked amused.

            “You didn’t have to come in guns blazing, you know.”

            “My guns weren’t _blazing_.” Dean retorted. “You forget what dad taught us, Sam? You don’t pick up the phone—”

            “It means you’re dead or in danger.” Sam shook his head. “Dean, for once, would you forget what dad said and treat the situation like a _situation_?”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It means that dad’s been dead for almost five years now. He didn’t have a rule or an answer for everything.” Sam picked up the knife he’d dropped during his skirmish with the vampire. “Try using your head.”

            He started to walk away and Dean glared daggers at his back, then glanced down at the vampire’s head. The sight of those teeth—it reminded him of a dark place he never wanted to go back to. He could still taste the vampire cure between his teeth sometimes: like stale blood and vomit mixed with rotten eggs. He shuddered and followed Sam.

            They walked into the living room and through a door Dean hadn’t noticed before because it was the same color and paneling as the walls around it. It led into a narrow but deep coat closet; Sam reached up to tug on a thin gold chain hanging from the ceiling, bringing to life a bleak fluorescent glow from the light bulb overhead.

            There was a girl huddled inside the coats at the back of the closet, probably a little younger than Sam. She was cute, Dean thought; cute and terrified. She flicked a look his way and he grinned.

            “Is that your brother?” She asked.

            “Yeah, this is Dean.” Sam said with his best I-Wish-I-Didn’t-Know-Him voice. “Dean, this is Sadie.” He reached for the girl’s hand and pulled her to her feet; Dean didn’t miss the way Sadie held onto Sam’s hand for a second before she let go and turned to face him.

            “Sadie Savage.” She held out her hand for a handshake, slipping something off her shoulder that looked like a tube of insulated pipe.

            “Sounds like a superhero name.” Dean teased, accepting the offered hand.

            “What, you think I’m not?” Sadie’s eyebrows slid up. “Well, you’re awfully dense, Dean Winchester.”

            “Oh-ho, _Sammy_ , I like her.” Dean said flipping the grin toward his brother and turning to let himself out of the closet.

            “ _Sammy_?” He heard Sadie hiss.

            “It’s a Dean thing. Don’t ask.”

            Dean’s smile widened.

            It wasn’t until they were all out in the open, brightly-lit front room that Dean realized the insulating pipe on Sadie’s shoulder was actually a huge snake.

            “Gross!” He snapped. Sam laughed. “I shook your _hand_ , lady!”

            “Oh, he doesn’t bite.” She tickled the snake’s chin as it wrapped around her arm. “Do you, Jordie?”

            “You named your snake after a—?”

            “Character from Star Trek? Yes, I did. Sam told me you’re named after your grandmother. Not judging.” She headed for the kitchen. “Do you have any food around here, Sam? I’m starving.”

            Dean jerked a thumb toward her as she walked away and mouthed at Sam, _Dude, you make a move on her or I will_. Sam rolled his eyes and followed Sadie out.

            She stopped in the doorway. “Um. Sam? There’s a vampire in here.”

            “Oh, yeah, sorry about that.” Sam stepped past her. “Give me a hand, Dean.”

            With Sadie and her snake looking on, the brothers rolled the body up in the threadbare rug and hauled it out the back door into a narrow, overgrown yard lined with gravel and backed by a high wooden fence. They slung the body over the rocks and Sam lit a match and set fire to it.

            “Got any marshmallows?” Dean asked, smirking. Sam shot him a Give-It-A-Rest look. “What? I’m hungry.” Sam didn’t look appeased. Dean rubbed the side of his neck. “All right, what’ve we got?”

            “So far, two dead vampires and no real leads. Neither one of them was Max, and the storms died out after the attack yesterday.”

            “So you’re sayin’ we got Bupkiss.”

            “Pretty much.”

            “Awesome.”

            They watched the smoke curling up between the branches of the palm trees that encroached on the far side of the fence. Dean was starting to feel antsy already, itching to solve the case and get one with the next one. Or get to Michigan.

            “There was one thing,” Sam said suddenly. “One of the vampires asked Sadie about her snake.”

            “Like, if it was poisonous?”

            “No, it just asked her where the snake _was_.”

            “Huh.” Dean mulled it over, then shrugged. “I dunno, Sam. Maybe we’re lookin’ at a vamp with an animal fetish.” He smiled reminiscently. “I dated a girl with an animal fetish once.”

            “Was she the one who crammed you in a dog suit?”

            Dean winced. “I totally forgot about that part.” He shook it off. “Thanks a lot.”

            “Don’t mention it.” Sam kicked a tumble of gravel over the smoking edge of the grass. “You know what this means, right? The Rakshasa, the vampires in the daylight?”

            “Aw, man, don’t say it—”

            “Purgatory.”

            “And he says it.” Dean rocked his head back and looked at Sam from the corners of his eyes. “You think they wanna get back at us for cramming the door shut?”

            “It makes senses.” Sam said, and added before Dean could protest, “Look at us, Dean. First sign of trouble, and we’re all over it. We can’t stay away from a city if there’s a threat. The monsters _know_ that. They don’t even have to lay traps for us anymore.”

            “Bet it helps, though, gettin’ the jump on us.” Dean swept the backyard with a critical glance. “All right, so we got nothin’.” He felt the fate of the case counterbalancing the wellbeing of an innocent. “You wanna take Sadie and get the hell outta Dodge?”

            “This is a trick question, right?” Sam asked after a pause. Dean shot him a Come-Again? look. “If I say yes…case goes cold. Sadie’s the only thing we know of that keeps these guys coming back.” He spread his hands in a Tell-Me-Where-I’m-Wrong gesture that Dean knew like he knew his own face in the mirror. “I say no, you think there’s something wrong with me.”

            “Oh, come on, Sam.”

            “What do you want me to say, Dean? I don’t like either option. But we don’t have any proof that these attacks will let up if we leave California.” He held up a hand to stop Dean’s protest. “Look. You’re here, I’m here, this is all we’ve got. Let’s dig in, put our heads together and figure it out.”

            “Just like old times.” Dean muttered, stomping out the embers that charred the grass. “Your call, your move, man.” He felt Sam’s bewildered glance. “Hey, I’m just your backup, Sammy. You’re running point on this one. Your lead.”

            Sam looked nervous for half a second before the focus burned into his gaze. “All right. When we closed the door to Purgatory, we pissed off monsters. A lot of them.”

            “So if we’re gonna ride this one out—”

            “Iron. Silver. Dead Man’s blood.” Sam strode back for the door and Dean was right on his heels. “Salt won’t do too much good, but it’s better safe than—” He broke off and staggered over something in the doorway, doing that stupid dance people do when they’re trying to keep their balance. “Sadie! Your snake’s on the move!”

            “Can you please give me a minute? I’m trying to change!”

            “A minute? He’s almost out the door!”

            “So grab him!”

            Sam shot Dean a desperate look and Dean smirked.

            “Listen to you two, arguing like an old married couple already.”

            Sam pointed accusingly at him. “Not helping.”

            “Snake’s almost gone, Sam.”

            “You’re an ass.” Sam said curtly, shoving past Dean. He grabbed the ten-foot-long snake by the tail and dragged it back inside, banging the back door shut and dropping the thing before it could turn on him. “Get lost, Jordie.”

            “Yeah, Jordie, get lost. Preferably in some dark corner of this house so we don’t have to see you again.” Dean chimed in. Sam glared at him and Dean shrugged. “What?”

            “Sadie likes him, y’know.”

            “And _you_ like Sadie. So let’s put up with the creepy little bastard.” Dean glanced down at the snake slithering into the next room and swallowed hard. “Really big bastard.”

            Sam motioned toward the door. “Let’s just grab our stuff, okay?”

            By the time they came back in, loaded down with all the hunter paraphernalia they had that would protect them against corporeal creatures, Sadie was sitting on the bed, dressed and alert. She watched them lay out their weapons and asked them about every single one, which Dean thought was pretty annoying. He ignored her for the most part, but Sam, being the emotional, touchy-feely kinda guy he was, let Dean do most of the work while he explained stuff to Sadie.

            “Bronze knives work pretty well against your average sea monsters, uh, sirens, fosse grims, grindylows, you name it. Most of them are allergic to bronze, so even if the knife won’t kill it, it’ll slow it down.”

            “Are werewolves really allergic to silver?”

            “Yep. Shapeshifters, too.” Dean pumped the shotgun one-handed, chambering a round. “Same with Skinwalkers.”

            Sam blinked, wearing that confused look he got whenever he was poking at a memory he couldn’t fit his head around. “Yeah. Skinwalkers.”

            Dean swore in his head and changed the subject. “So. Sadie. Strapping young woman like yourself. What’s your focus?”

            “Minoring in mythology and dance, majoring in English.” She twisted a knot in the musty blanket. “Sam told me he used to be in law school.”

            _Geeze, Sammy, tell the girl your whole life story, why don’t ya?_ “Minoring in mythology, huh? Guess that’s comin’ in handy.”

            “It has its perks.” She leaned her chin on her fists. “Vampires. Allergic to garlic or not?”

            “Nope. Not even close.” Sam grinned.

            “Didn’t your mythology books debunk this crap?” Dean demanded.

            Sadie raised her eyebrows. “ _Mythology_ books, Dean. They debunked _themselves_. Yesterday vampires didn’t exist for me. Maybe a little mix-up on their _allergies_ is the least of my concerns, you know?” She smiled sweetly at him and Dean smiled humorlessly back. “Angels. Fake?”

            Sam and Dean exchanged a heavy glance.

            “They’re real.” Sam confirmed. “Just not the way most people think they are.”

            “Bunch of dicks.” Dean muttered.

            “But I thought they were…you know, perfect.”

            “The devil started out as an angel. The hell kind of _perfect_ is that?” Dean replied.

            Sadie shrugged. “Have you ever fought any angels?”

            “Fought our fair share of ’em, sweetheart.” Dean smirked. “Killed a couple, too.”

            “You’ve killed _angels_?” Sadie looked appalled.

            “Disobedient ones.” Sam assured her. “One of them tried to kill our parents. A couple fell in with the demons.” He shrugged. “It happens. I guess.”

            “So they’re not watching over us.” Sadie sat back against the wall, looking crestfallen. “Jess was wrong.”

            Dean tossed the shotgun on top of the duffle bag. “I dunno. They’re not all bad. You got a couple good ones.”

            Sam tried and failed to hide his smile.

            “So demons are real too, I guess.” Sadie said after a brief dry spell in the conversation. “They’re evil, right?”

            “Oh yeah.” Sam’s voice pitched low.

            “Can’t trust a demon.” Dean agreed, looking at his brother sideways, then getting back to cleaning his weapons.

            “It sounds like you two of some kind of history, here. No offense.”

            Now Dean avoided the glance he could feel Sam tossing his way. “We got a lotta history. Comes with the territory.”

            Sadie laughed quietly. “Sure makes an English major look pretty dull.”

            Sam’s expression was startled. “What does?”

            “You two. Seeing what you do. I mean, sure, if I go through with my major I could probably become a teacher. Help enrich the English language.” She shrugged. “So what? You guys are out there saving _lives_.”

            “Sadie, believe me, what you’re doing is just as important as what Dean and I do.” Sam said, putting on the Puppy-Dog-Eyes. “People like you, and Jessica—you’re the reason we try to keep the world safe. So you can go on and live normal lives.”

            Dean felt like he was listening to a paraphrase of his conversation with Ben. His gaze slanted down to the floor and he kept cleaning his gun.

            “I don’t think I’ll ever feel _normal_ again.”

            “Probably not.” Dean dropped the cleaning rag and looked at her. “But you can sure as hell try.”

            A sleek, semi-circular shape moved in the corner of Dean’s vision. His hand was already on the closest knife when he realized it was Jordie, slithering rapidly across the floor. The snake wound himself around the foot of the bed and twisted across the covers to Sadie.

            “Hey, Dean,” Sam said quietly as they bent back over their weapons and rationed out the scraps of silver they’d accumulated and subsequently butchered over the years. “How’s Cass?”

            Whatever partial good mood Dean had been rallying popped like a balloon. “Peachy, for a guy who got his guts torn to shreds.” He muttered, tossing aside a piece of silver so tarnished he doubted it’d be worth much. “Bobby was patchin’ him up when I took off.”

            “How bad is he?”

            Dean’s kneejerk reaction was a wisecrack that would throw optimism into sharp relief, something that would keep the truth out of Sam’s reach. Even after everything they’d been through, Dean’s instinct was to protect his brother from this kind of stuff, the things they couldn’t fight.

            “It’s pretty bad, Sam.” He admitted.

            Sam’s forehead creased with typical worry lines. “Let’s just hope Bobby can—”

            “ _Sam_.” The breathy choking sound came from behind them. They twisted around toward the bed.

            Sadie was flat on her back, hands scrabbling uselessly at the thick blackish-green coil around her throat…Jordie. The snake was knotted around her neck.

            Strangling her.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_December 15 th, 2011_

_Embarcadero Road_ _, Palo Alto, California_

“Son of a bitch!”

            Dean went straight for the gun by his left hip, but Sam didn’t hesitate. He vaulted onto the bed on his knees, hooked his fingers around Jordie’s midsection and tried to pry the snake free.

            It wasn’t that easy; the scales were so smooth his grip kept slipping. Desperate, Sam searched for the head; Sadie was turning the ghostly blue color of asphyxiation, her struggles against the snake’s weight crushing her windpipe lessening.

            “No—no! Dammit!” Sam wedged his grip around Jordie’s head and yanked.

            “Sam, get back!”

            Sam knew when Dean said those three words there was an added connotation: _get back or get hurt_. He whirled off the bed and felt the ringing report of the gunshot in his eardrums. Jordie went flying, smacked the wall and crumbled onto the floor. Sadie rolled onto her side, shrieking in a gasping breath.

            Sam went straight for her, sat her up and grabbed her shoulders, turning her to look at him; already the pink was seeping back into her lips. “You okay?”

            “Wha-what the hell just happened?” Sadie asked hoarsely. “Jordie—?”

            “Uh, Sam.” Dean said shortly. “We got a problem.”

            Sam looked over at where Dean was standing over the snake, and did a double-take, blinking to make sure he wasn’t missing anything.

            It wasn’t a snake huddled against the wall. It was a kid probably a few years younger than Sam, holding a bleeding tract the bullet had carved into his shoulder. His face was damp with tears and he was naked.

            “The _hell_ is this thing?” Dean pointed to it with his gun, glaring daggers at Sadie.

            “My pet snake?” She sounded flabbergasted.

            “You call that a snake? That’s a freaking, breathing, _human being_!”

            “Dean.” Sam said, cautioning. Dean swung the glare onto him and Sam retaliated with a Give-Me-A-Second look. “He’s hurt, okay? You _shot_ him. Let’s give him a chance to talk.”

            “He tried to _kill_ her, Sam!”

            The kid heaved out a breath and shook his head hard. “Not-not-not…”

            “Last time we let some freak give us an earful, I ended up _possessed_ ,” Dean added, setting his sights on the kid’s head. “Not takin’ that chance.”

            “Wait!” Sadie scrambled off the bed and put herself between Dean and the boy curled up against the wall. “Sam’s right, we can’t just shoot him until we know what’s going on. He could be in danger!”

            “You got no idea what this kid could be, Sadie.” Dean said quietly, fiercely.

            “Give me a real, _solid_ reason to shoot him and I’ll move.” She said defiantly, and for a second Sam saw the family resemblance between her and Jess, so powerfully it was like being catapulted into the past.

            Dean stared at Sadie for what felt like full on an hour, not blinking, sizing her up. When she crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, Dean flicked a humorless smile and clicked the safety on his gun.

            “You deal with the kid.” He walked toward the door.

            “Dean. Hey!” Sam called after him, frustrated. “Dean!”

            The front door slammed. Sadie waited a few seconds and then her face crumbled and she pulled into a few shaky breaths, rubbing the bands of bruising around her throat.

            Jordie pulled himself up onto one elbow and grabbed her ankle; Sadie jumped and Sam tensed, ready for anything.

            “Th-th-th-thanks.” The kid said shakily.

            Sam saw Sadie’s whole face transform into something soft, something compassionate. She pulled the blanket off the bed, knelt and wrapped it around Jordie’s shoulders, helping him sit up. When he kept staring at her, eyes flooding, she pulled him into a hug, and Jordie’s tears soaked her shoulder.

Even for Sam, it was a little much—a little mushy. Dean would’ve pantomimed gagging himself in the background.

            After it became apparent that Jordie wasn’t planning on turning off the waterworks any time in the next day or two, Sam walked over to join them and knelt, laying a hand on Sadie’s back.

            “Sadie?” He said quietly. “Listen. Dean was right. We don’t know what this kid’s story is. I think it’d be safer if we tied him up until we’re sure.”

            Sadie looked up at him, green eyes wet with emotion. “Sam, _look_ at him.”

            Sam was. He remembered the time he’d seen a kid turned into a vampire, barely Sam’s age at the time, just ten years old, sobbing in John Winchester’s embrace—then twisting around, trying to bite him. He remembered Madison, innocent, sweet and asleep in Sam’s arms—until she’d wolfed out and nearly killed him.

            “I’m sorry. We need to do this.” He grabbed her elbow and tugged her back until she reluctantly released Jordie. The kid fell onto his chest and kept sobbing even after Sam dragged him to his feet and half-carried him into the dining room.

            Sam sat him down in the only chair and tied him up, not too tight, before he checked his shoulder. The bullet had scooped out a lot of flesh but there wasn’t much of a risk of Jordie bleeding out. Sam grabbed the edge of the blanket, cut a strip and tied the wound. Then he crouched in front of the chair and met the kid’s frantic, flicking gaze.

            “Jordie?” He said. “Is that your real name?”

            Jordie sucked in a rattling breath. “Kind of.” He spoke with a strange lisp, like he was still used to hissing his syllables.

            “Okay.” Sam figured he’d have to take that and run with it. “What are you?”

            “Snake-person.”

            Sam’s mind, tuned to lore from years of reading the books and his dad’s journal, flashed through all of the possibilities—came up empty. Shapeshifters didn’t transform into animals, and Skinwalkers could only take canine forms, as far as he knew.

            “What’s a snake-person, Sam?” Sadie demanded.

            He looked helplessly up at her. “I’m not sure.”

            Jordie leaned over until his head almost bumped Sam’s. “Snake. _Person_.”

            “Whoa, easy.” Sam edged away. “I got you. Snake-person.” He got to his feet and walked over to join Sadie in the doorway. “I gotta talk to Dean. _Watch_ him. Don’t let him out of that chair, okay?”

            Sadie pressed her lips together and nodded; Sam rested a hand on her arm comfortingly, then let himself out.

            Dean wasn’t hard to find, slouching against the door of the Impala. Sam had a feeling his brother was waiting for him.

            Dean turned around when Sam crossed his arms on the roof of the car. “Get anything outta the kid?”

            “ _He_ says he’s a snake-person.” Sam said.

            “ _Snake_ -person? Are we talkin’ G.I Joe: Rise of the Cobra, here?”

            “Give me something better to go on, Dean.” Sam shrugged. “Dad’s journal doesn’t say anything about people transforming into _snakes_.”

            “And you left Sadie _inside_ with this guy?”

            “He’s tied up.”

            “Sam, we got _no_ idea what this thing is capable of.”

            “Trust me, Dean, he’s not going anywhere.” Sam said frankly. “He’s crying too hard to move on his own. And if you ask me, I think he’s still used to crawling around on his stomach. He couldn’t even walk.”

            Dean’s eyes took on a distant, uneasy quality. “Hey. Doesn’t it say somewhere in the Bible about Lucifer crawling around on his belly like a snake?”

            Sam felt a familiar grip of edginess in his gut where Lucifer was concerned; not just because of the memories lying dormant behind the wall, but because of the ones that had seeped through, giving Sam a glimpse of Lucifer’s constrained, malicious intent toward the people Sam cared about.

            “That was a metaphor, Dean.”

            Dean seemed to grab onto that, maybe a little relieve and desperate to have that foggy possibility debunked. “Okay, so we’ve got a snake-shifter tryin’ to strangle this girl, and no idea what he is or where the hell he came from.” Dean leaned his outstretched arms on the roof of the Impala, hands loosely locked. “You still think they’re after you?”

            Sam hated that I-Told-You-So tone. “No. This is about Sadie.” He looked over his shoulder toward the house. “Question is, why?”

            “That,” Dean pointed at Sam with both index fingers. “Is what we’re going to find out.” He lurched away from the car, walked around to the trunk and popped it. Sam joined him and watched as Dean pulled out an old tin cup and started throwing ingredients into it: a piece of bone, crushed silver, salt.

            “What is that? Hoodoo?” Sam asked.

            “Something I saw dad make once.” Dean said grimly. “Can’t figure out what you’re up against and don’t have time to run through everything?” He sprinkled holy water over the mixture. “Give ’em a cocktail.”

            “Throw enough stuff at the wall,” Sam began, understanding.

            “Somethin’s gotta stick.” Dean mixed in Dead Man’s Blood and a pinch of powder that Sam had never seen before.

            “Wait. Is that _gold dust_?” He demanded.

            Dean hesitated, looking at him round-eyed. “What? Dad never showed you this stuff?” Sam shook his head and Dean looked away. “Huh.” He shrugged. “Ah, well, like I said, I only saw him use it once.”

            “When was that?”

            Dean went incredibly still for a few seconds. “That time when you ran away from home. He thought this, uh, this guy that was following us was behind it. Y’know, like the dumb son of a bitch kidnapped you or something.”

            Sam took that memory and shoved it down; it had taken him years to see it Dean’s way, how terrified his brother had been when Sam had run away and lived on his own for two weeks. Their dad had been furious and Dean had taken the brunt of it. All so Sam could escape his family.

            “Did it work?” Sam asked lamely, trying to change the subject.

            “Found out the guy was a Shapeshifter.” Dean grabbed the tin cup and slammed the trunk shut. “We goin’, or what?”

            Sadie was waiting right where Sam had left her, but he didn’t like the look on her face. It was still full of compassion, but underneath that there was a kind of angry bitterness that meant using force against this kid probably wouldn’t be an option. Sam considered asking her to leave for half a second, but she was too involved in it now. He needed to keep his eyes on her.

            Dean didn’t have that problem. “Sadie, move.” He shoved past her and walked toward the chair. Sadie stepped toward him.

            “What are you—?”

            Dean threw the tin of powders and mashed-up liquid onto Jordie’s face.

            The kid started howling like Sam had never heard a human being howl; not like he was in pain, but like a kid throwing a tantrum because he bumped his head. Only here it was ten times worse, because he had a full set of lungs and probably a few years’ pent up rage to let out. Sam winced, face scrunching up, and looked at Dean. Very slowly, Dean pressed his hands over his ears.

            “You’re awful!” Sadie snapped, pushing Dean aside and grabbing Jordie’s head, cradling it against her chest. “What the hell was that?”

            Sam met Dean’s eyes.

            No physical reaction; no reaction at all except for a lot of indignant screaming.

            “Sam, what the hell is this thing?” Dean asked under his breath. Sam shrugged helplessly, barely peeling his hands from his ears.

            “Sam, I’m untying him.” Sadie said sharply. “And I’m giving him some of your clothes. _Then_ , maybe, if we treat him right, he’ll tell us what he is and why he tried to hurt me.” She headed for the door and Jordie grabbed her wrist. Dean and Sam tensed, watching them both.

            “Not…hurt.” Jordie said forcefully, his lisp strangling the words. “Warn. You.”

            “Warn me about what, sweetie?” Sadie whispered, covering his hand with hers.

            “Th-Th-Th-Th—”

            Smoky darkness swept the house like a tidal wave; a blast of thunder shattered the window on the far wall. Sadie screamed and Sam lunged, spinning her out of the way and dropping to one knee, shielding her body with his as the glass showered down around them in a splintering spray.

            The thunder seemed to last for more than a minute, Sam still protecting Sadie as a frantic wind roared through the room, whipping his hair across his forehead. Sadie clutched his arm and huddled against his chest as the current thrust Sam forward; he slammed a hand against the wall to stop himself from sliding.

            And then it ended, like air getting sucked through a tunnel.

            Sam counted to ten, then picked his head up.

            The wind blast had knocked Jordie’s chair over. His desperate eyes were pinned on Sadie, and then swept up, looking at something behind Sam.

            “Th-Th,” He stopped and lifted his chin. “Thor.”

            Still on his knees, Sam yanked Sadie around.

            The man stepping through the ruined bay window, adjusting the cuffs of his leather jacket, looked like he’d been carved out of a tree. His blond hair and blue eyes on top of that made him look like a walking contradiction. And he was huge, easily pushing seven feet tall. Sam didn’t usually have a problem looking down at people, but this guy dwarfed him.

            The guy stopped and picked Jordie’s chair up with one hand, setting it back upright. Sam got to his feet and swept Sadie around behind him, casting a glance at Dean, relieved to see his brother getting up, barely scratched.

            Then Jordie’s declaration really sank into his mind.

            “Thor.” He echoed flatly, incredulously. “Norse god of thunder, Thor?” Jordie nodded and Sam swallowed hard. “Oh, great.”

            Thor looked at him with an arrogance that made Sam’s hackles rise. “Enough from you, whelp. I think you’ve spoken more than your lot already.”

            “How ’bout you try me on for size, chuckles?” Dean whipped out his firearm and aimed it at the god’s head. “Back off.”

            “Uh. Dean.” Sam said. “Remember Muncie?”

            Dean gave him a classic What-The-Hell-Else-Am-I-Supposed-To-Do? look, which meant going up against a lesser god with a knife was like poking a bear with a stick, but what choice did they have?

            “Thor?” Sadie whispered. “Am I missing something?”

            “Probably not.” Sam said stiffly.

            Thor circled around behind Jordie’s chair and gripped the back, rocking it slowly from side to side, glaring at Dean. “Put that away.”

            “Not happenin’.”

            Thor went incredibly still and pointed at Dean. “Put the gun away. Or I kill,” He angled his hand toward Sam and Sadie. “Them.”

            Dean’s expression went slack. “Man, I hate it when they do that.” He slowly lowered his sights. “Son of a bitch could do it, too.”

            “Why are you here?” Sadie asked in what Sam thought was an incredibly unhealthy display of bravery. Most people didn’t act that calm when they were staring up at a giant from Norse mythology.

            “I’ve come for him.” He ran his fingers jerkily through Jordie’s hair, and Jordie winced, leaning away.

            “For Jordie?” Sadie blinked.

            “No.” Thor shook his head. “For Jormungander.”

            The silence stretched on for a few seconds. “Well, that’s…that’s awesome.” Dean finally said. “Why didn’t we think of that, _Sam_?”

            “I dunno, _Dean_.”

            “Would you two shut up?” Sadie hissed. “Is this guy really—?”

            “Thor?” Sam said lowly. “Yeah. Probably.”

            “Then my pet _snake_ is—?”

            “Jormungander?” Dean interrupted. “Whaddya wanna bet?”

            “What do you want him for?” Sam demanded of Thor. The god stopped his hypnotic rocking of the chair and looked at Sam with his sharp blue eyes.

            “Do you know the history, whelp?” He growled. “This. Jormungander. He is the son of my rival. Loki.”

            “Loki.” Dean echoed. His eyes widened. “You’re kidding me, right?”

            “ _Gabriel_.” Sam groaned.

            “That thing’s half _angel_?”

            “Son of Loki, and capable of many, many things.” Thor said. “So I made him what he was—a lowly serpent. I banished him to this strange world in the west to crush the spirit of my rival forever.”

“Word to the wise: banish the concubines next time.” Dean suggested dryly. “Your buddy Loki didn’t look all that shook up to me.”

“He was devastated. For many centuries.” Thor said almost snidely. “The boy was hidden from him by this form. No different than any other snake. But now I find myself in need of his powers.”

“No offense,” Sam said, struggling to keep a grip on his diplomacy. “But what does a _god_ need with a snake? Half-snake. Person.” He looked sheepishly at Dean, who rolled his eyes.

“Do you use your ears, whelp?” Thor demanded. “Half-angel. Half-human. I banished him prematurely. Now he is useful.”

“Yeah? What for?” Dean interjected.

“For a battle between Halflings. The other, a wanderer on the Earth, is already in my possession.” Thor gripped Jordie’s shoulder. “Now it comes down to me to take back what is already mine by conquest.”

“Yeah, like I said.” Dean swung his sights back onto Thor. “Not happenin’.”

“Your weapon will not injure me, boy.”

“Probably not.” Dean clicked off the safety. “Worth a shot, though.”

“Dean.” Sam said warningly.

“Do you know,” Thor said icily. “That I could call on the lightning in the clouds to strike you down? I brought this boy back from his banishment to serve me. Do not presume to stand in my way.”

“Oh, _presume_! That’s a big word. Don’t hurt yourself!” Sadie snapped.

Dean shut his eyes for a second. “Sadie. Really not helping.”

“I see you western men have yet to learn the proper way to muzzle your women.” Thor said with distaste.

Sadie glared at him. “You’re the one who needs to be muzzled. Listen to yourself! You haven’t stopped babbling since you walked in that window!”

Sam was starting to feel like the only one keeping his head in this room. “Sadie, c’mon. Dean’s right. Calm down.”

“Calm down? He wants to put _Jordie_ in some freaky death match!”           

Thor pinned a cold gaze on her. “Should I dispose of you, insect?” He lifted a hand, fingers poised to snap. “It would be simple.”

Sam stepped in front of Sadie. “ _Everybody_ needs to just…calm down, here.”

“That is easy to suggest when you’re the weaker man.” Thor snorted. “I am taking the boy now. I advise against interference.”

“Hey, normally I’d be on your side, big guy.” Dean said easily. “Fact is, though, we uh, sorta owe Gabriel a favor. And I’d say saving his son from a big, arrogant asshat like you probably settles the score.”

“Do you think you can fire your pesky gun before I call down the lightning?” Thor asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I have been blessed with an aerodynamic trigger finger.” Dean replied, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Let’s see who’s a quicker draw.”

“Dean, back off, man.” Sam said, feeling his hair standing on end as a whiplash of electric energy fanned out from where Thor stood behind the chair. “This is out of your league, all right?”

“You might wanna stand back, Sam.” Dean replied.

“Dean!”

Thor laughed. “You mortals think yourselves gods in your time. Do you know what I have done, whelp? I’ve turned men’s bones to brittle leaves. I’ve crushed their hearts with a single look.”

“Not bragging, or anything.”

“Really.” Thor pressed on. “What have _you_ done?”

Dean shrugged, mouth turning down in a Lemee-Think-About-That expression. Then he smirked. “I like to think I’ve made the world a…better place. And by better place, I mean I’ve visited every corner of the United States and gracedit with my charm and adorable good looks. While I was…oh, yeah.” His eyes narrowed. “Hunting dicks like _you_.”

Sam felt the tension rising in the air; which probably meant Dean could feel it, too. Either his brother was suicidal, or Sam figured Dean had a plan. At this point, he wasn’t ruling out either option.

“Your buzz is like an irritating insect.” Thor said. “What do you think you are going to do, talk me to my death?”

“Nope. Just buying time.”

Thor pinned a steely glare on Dean. “Time for what, may I ask?”

In a movement as fluid as ballet, Jordie yanked his arms free of the rope he had been worrying free of since Thor had first stepped into the room, and landed a sucker-punch on massive god’s jaw that sent him reeling. Sam’s eyes widened; chalk one up to half-angel powers. Jordie staggered to his feet, stumbled across the room and collapsed against Sadie, his weight nearly dragging her to the floor.

Thor regained his footing and glared at Jordie, wiping blood from his split lip on the back of his hand. His breathing was fast and hard and sparks seemed to pop from his blue eyes.

“You only serve to prove my end.” He snarled, and raised his hand.

Sam had been struck by lightning before; he knew that feeling like the marrow of his bones was turning to soup, his stomach sweeping into his ankles, the hairs standing up all across his body. He shoved Sadie and Jordie back through the doorway and a split-second glance showed him where Dean was standing: next to the twisted, gutted inside of the wall filled with pipes and electric circuits. Conduits.

“Dean!”

The house rattled, went still, then roared into flame as a lightning bolt gashed into the roof, kissing the dry wooden siding into flame. The bone-jarring sensation snaked up through Sam’s limbs, catapulting him back into the front room. He crashed into Sadie and Jordie and they all three landed in a twisted heap on the floor.

Sam was unconscious for one minute…two minutes…coming around to the smell of smoke and char. For one second, most likely the worst second of his life, he thought he was in Hell again. He blinked his eyes open, thought he saw Lucifer standing over him and felt his heart jolt to a stop.

“Sam. Sammy!” A hand was shaking him hard, lifting him off the floor. “Man, c’mon, this house is gonna go!”

Sam pushed himself up on his hands and knees, the smoky smell making him dizzy. He was flashing back—his apartment—Jessica—Hell—Lucifer—

Then Dean was yanking on his arm, pulling him toward the door, and the sight of Dean’s face helped Sam focus. He shook off the memories, one hand against Dean’s chest to steady himself, and they ran, slamming out the front door just as the roof started to crumble in like a house of cards. Sam didn’t stop until he was straddling the curb; then he swung around to look back.

The sky was clear, cloudless above the vacant house as it burned down.

“Dammit, all our stuff’s in there!” Dean snarled. “All the weapons, the—” He froze, muscles locking up. “Dad’s journal.”

He took off running, back toward the house, plunging through the wreckage in front of the door and disappearing behind a wall of fire.

“Hey! _Dean_!” Sam didn’t hesitate, running after his brother.

The fire had already raced across the dry kindling of the roof and was in the process of devouring the second floor of the house. Sam stopped in the doorway, squinting against the stinging smoke, covering his mouth with his arm and trying to see inside.

Debris was scattered everywhere, crossbeams toppled throughout the room. At the foot of the bed, Sam could barely see Dean’s outline, grabbing the journal and as many weapons as he could carry.

Something creaked ominously overhead. Sam lurched into the doorway, fight-or-flight instincts at war with each other. “Dean, get out!”

Dean shoved something skidding across the floor toward him; Sam caught the journal and looked up again just as the second floor caved in, burying his brother.

“No!” Sam flung the journal onto the sidewalk, leaped over the crush of broken wood barring the doorway and started heaving pieces of plaster and floorboards that had cascaded down over Dean’s head.

            It didn’t take him long to unbury Dean, and to his relief Sam saw that he was conscious and breathing. Grabbing the front of Dean’s jacket, Sam hauled him to his feet and pulled Dean’s arm across his shoulders, put his head down and made a break for the door again. He’d barely gotten over the threshold when a burst of fire hissed out over their heads, so close Sam felt his hair singe. He lowered Dean on the curb and went back for the journal; by the time he’d returned, Dean was up on his knees, throwing up clots of tar-like black from his lungs, his nose and eyes streaming.

            “What the hell was that? Are you suicidal?” Sam all but yelled at him. “You coulda gotten yourself killed! You almost _did_!”

            “We needed the journal.” Dean said, voice deeply congested. He hocked in and spit out a ropy strand of smoke and saliva. “That’s just gross.”

            “Dad’s journal is _not_ worth risking your life over!”

            “Yeah, tell that to all the people it’s helped us save.” Dean got slowly to his feet, wiping his running nose on his wrist. His eyes were rimmed red. “How ’bout you keep the thing _on_ you from now on, Sam?”

            “Yeah, I wouldn’t have left it sitting on the bed if I’d known we’d be tangling with a god in the next room.” Sam snapped. “Don’t you think it’s been a little crazy today? Sorry if I forgot where the journal was for one second.”

            “Bite me.” Dean muttered. Frustrated, Sam went to throw the journal onto the front seat of the Impala; a flush of anger made the back of his neck taste the heat of the fire that was now behind them.

Dean started pacing across the sidewalk. When Sam had a hold of his temper again, he looked at him and saw Dean’s skin, slick and glistening along one side of his face and his arm where the fire had munched clean through his sleeve.

Sighing, he straightened. “Lemee take care of that.” He gestured to the wounds and Dean smacked his hand away.

“I’m fine, Sam.” He kept pacing. Sam caught up to him and grabbed his arm, spinning him around.

“Those are third degree burns, Dean.” Sam insisted. “At least let me take a look, all right?”

“You some kinda doctor now?” Dean muttered, flinging himself down on the hood of the Impala and submitting to Sam’s ministrations. After a few minutes of tense, angry silence, he added, more quietly, “How many times I gotta pull your ass out of a fire, Sammy? Huh?”

The question sank in deep, for some reason Sam couldn’t really explain.

“Did you see Sadie and Jordie get out?” He asked.

“Thor got the kid.” Dean said. “He’d already bailed by the time I could move. Sadie was gone when I—” He stopped, jerking his head away from Sam, picking it up to sniff the air.

“Dean?”

“Shh. You smell that?”

“Why do I gotta be quiet to smell somet—?”

“Shush, would ya?”

Sam shushed.

Dean closed his eyes and kept sniffing, then looked at Sam. “You got some magic healing powers I don’t know about?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Dean. What the hell, man?”

“I smell antiseptic.” Dean hopped off the hood.

Sam turned his back on the house, away from the heat of the flames. With the wind blowing directly against his skin, cooling it in spite of the dryness, he picked up the subtle sweetness under the stench of smoldering wood.

“Freesia.”

“Bingo.” Dean stepped up to his side. “Looks like our Rakshasa buddy’s still in town, huh?”

Sam felt a crawling sense of dread. “Dean. I think he’s got Sadie.”

Dean flipped him a look of disbelief. “The hell’s he want with your girlfriend?”

Sam didn’t waste time correcting him. “Beats me. But Dean, if she’s out there, I’ve gotta get her back.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” Dean said under his breath. “All right, we better bail before the cops show up. Here,” He tossed the keys to the beater and Sam caught them. “Take the Batmobile and try’n find that son of a bitch. Me and my baby’ve got some catchin’ up to do.”

“Tracking down Thor?”

“You got it.” Dean reached up to rub the side of his neck, winced, and dropped his arm. “Yeah, since when do god-fights end well for humans? I gotta stop this jackass before he blows up the planet.”

“Be careful, Dean. This guy can incinerate a house with one bolt of lightning. And something tells me he’s not your biggest fan.”

“I know, right? Shocking.” Dean affected a tone of indignation.

“Just watch yourself.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Dean slid into the front seat of the Impala, nodded to Sam and pulled out past him, cruising away. Sam got into the front of the beater, started it and then realized he had no idea where to go.

He pulled out his phone and called Bobby.

No answer. He ended the call and called back.

Bobby picked up on the first ring. “Ever hear’a bein’ patient, Sam?”

“Yeah, I don’t really have time for that right now.” Sam said, glad that Bobby was at least treating him normally now. They’d had to postpone having a talk in Essex due to Dean’s being shot, but having to work that case together had slowly brought things back to a semblance of normal between them. So much so that Sam knew Bobby would never miss the agitation in his voice.

And he didn’t. “What’s goin’ on, kid?”

“I’ll let Dean explain most of it. Tall and short, we ran into a…pretty big problem. And now the Rakshasa’s got its hands on a friend of mine.”

“Balls.” Bobby muttered. “This is one badass you don’t wanna go up against on your own, Sam. Believe me.”

“I’m out of options, Bobby.” Sam cruised slowly down the street, not really sure where he needed to be heading but knowing it was away from that house. “I need to know how to find this thing.”

“Well, if you don’t got time to sit tight and come up with a better way’a handlin’ this, then you ain’t gonna have time to find ingredients for some tracking spell.” Sam could almost hear Bobby running a hand down his face, the way he always did when he was giving himself time to think. “All right. That Rakshasa you boys faced a few years back. What d’you remember about that?”

Sam tried to work his way back to that long-ago memory. “Uh, he worked better in the dark? When we were in that funhouse, he turned himself invisible.”

“So, start there. What’s dark around California?”

 “I dunno, Bobby, could be anything. Houses, warehouses, uh, caves, if you get into the hills…”

“Well, if that don’t help much, think about the lore.” Sam heard a door shut and footsteps clomping down a flight of stairs. “Rakshasas like forests. Anything like that nearby?”

“No, just palm trees, scrub-brush. No forests for a few miles in any direction.”

“Take it deeper. These sons of bitches like raisin’ hell any way they can, but they got a soft spot for houses of prayer.”

“Houses of prayer.” Sam echoed thoughtfully. “There’s a Methodist Church Jessica made me go to once over on Hamilton Avenue. It’s the only church around here that’s closed until six on weekdays.” He checked the clock on the dashboard. “Gives us four hours.”

“Better get there fast and hope the damn thing’s there.” Bobby sounded like he hoped it might not be. “So I can be expectin’ a call from that idjit brother of yours here in the next few minutes?”

“I’d say that’s pretty likely.”

“Same crap, just a different day.” Bobby sighed. “Sam, you be _damn_ careful with this thing, hear me? He’s a nasty bastard, you don’t wanna mess with him.”

“Just bringing the fight where it belongs.” Sam said. “Hey, Bobby. How’s Cass?”

“Breathin’. Not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing at this point.”

“Right.” Sam sighed. “I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Sam, you better call me in five hours, or I’m sendin’ Dean out there to that church, and he ain’t gonna like havin’ to pull your ass outta this again.”

“Great. When you talk to him, tell him I said he’d better take care of those burns he got.”

“What burns? The hell’d you boys torch _now_?”

“Ask him.” Sam ended the call and checked his watch again. A slight smile cut across his lips.

It was nice to know that after more than twenty years, he could still get Dean in trouble with Bobby if he left just enough ambiguous in his phone calls.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_December 15 th, 2011_

_First United Methodist Church, Palo Alto, California_

The whole street smelled like freesia.

It was a cloying scent mixing with the rough tang of creosote and hot pavement as Sam cruised down Hamilton Avenue. Even with one arm draped out the open window, steering single-handed, he doubted he passed for casual. And what would it matter if he did? The Rakshasa could probably already smell his fear. Assuming it was even at this church.

            In his gut, Sam knew that it was.

            He parked around the corner, got out, and grabbed the spare firearm from the glove compartment, undyingly grateful that Dean had thought this one out. Tucking the weapon into the waistband of his jeans and tugging his shirttail down over it, Sam headed back to the church.

            The sight of the place with its sweeping apex and concrete courtyard brought him back a few years, to this church and to Jessica. She hadn’t been exactly the religious type, but she’d prayed. Sam had heard her, a lot of times, when she’d thought he was asleep. Praying for her family. Praying for the world. A lot of times, praying for him. Every time he’d heard that it’d just made him fall more in love with her. And he’d figured maybe there was something to all this praying stuff, so he’d let her drag him here. And he’d prayed to the same God she did, because, hell, he’d always believed there had to be some cosmic force of good to balance the evil. Ever since he was little, he’d believed that. John and Dean against the monsters. Angels against the demons. God against the devil.  There were always two sides to the coin.

            It was harder to pray, now. He’d tried his hardest to pray the night in Essex when Dean had been bleeding to death in the street; but more and more it just felt like God probably didn’t care.

            Being back here reminded Sam of why he’d started praying: because he’d believed it was right. And because sometimes when he was at Sanford he’d wake up from nightmares—maybe premonitions, now that he thought about it—of Dean getting himself killed because he was hunting alone, with no one to watch his back. It was Sam’s one weak-spot when it came to prayer—because if God was listening at all, then Dean was the one who needed his help.

Not Sam. Sam could handle himself.

He stopped beside the nave, looking up and around for any watching eyes, squinting against the sunlight. The ribbed ceiling climbed up away from him and Sam wondered if it still looked as impressive as he remembered.

He tried one of the glass front doors; locked, and everything was shut down inside, just the sunlight coming in through the windows casting murky shadows on the pews. Checking the street for passersby, Sam pulled out his lockpicking kit and attacked the front door with a vengeance.

It took him five minutes to slide the tumblers into place, but once he had Sam knew he had two minutes to get to the alarm pad and shut it off. He counted himself lucky that he and Jessica had come here once for more than just a sermon. This was the first place they’d kissed, sneaking in after dark because a friend of a friend had told Jessica the place was “magical” at night. Privately Sam was surprised their excursion hadn’t led to anything more than a lot of tongue action and a little snuggling.

He popped the top of the alarm box and punched in the code, an easy “0-9-8-7-6-1-2-3-4-5”, and headed to the far side of the room. A series of switches on the wall stared up at him, daring him to flick them on.

Sam did, flooding the nave with a rich golden glow slashed through with red, lime-green, sky blue, purple, yellow and pink from smaller floodlights set into the walls. Sam’s eyes swept around the room, taking in the rows of pews leading up to the altar.

He remembered lying on one of those pews the night they’d sneaked in here, one arm tucked behind his head, the other stroking Jess’s back as she lay with her head on his chest. She’d looked up at him, resting her chin on his collarbone.

“I want to get married here, Sam.” She’d whispered.

“Kind of flashy, isn’t it?” Sam had teased, moving his hand to her hair.

She’d shrugged. “I guess it is. But it’s so beautiful. And I hear they give theology majors a discount.”

“I guess you’re lucky, then.” Sam had teased, brushing his nose against hers.

“I guess I am.”

It was the first time Sam had ever considered marriage as a realistic possibility in his future. The night Dean had walked back into Sam’s life, he’d been here early on in the evening, unbeknownst to Jessica. Talking to the pastor. And finding out the cost for a wedding.

The memories blurred Sam’s vision. Sucking in a breath, he shoved them away and headed for the altar, the garish white spotlight showing him exactly where he needed to go. He pulled out his gun, clicked the safety off but kept it aimed toward the purple-carpeted floor.

He mounted the steps up to the altar and turned around to face the nave; it still looked deserted.

Sam spread his arms wide. “All right! I’m here, you son of a bitch! Now where are you?”

For the first time, standing there was nothing but the swishing of blood in his ears to break the silence, Sam realized he could’ve been wrong. That maybe the Rakshasa was at a different church—or wasn’t at a church at all. Maybe he was in an abandoned house, or a factory no one would ever touch. Maybe he’d just imagined—

The freesia smell was getting stronger.

Sam stiffened, angling his firearm toward the door at the far end of the room. He wasn’t sure how much good a few bullets would do against a Rakshasa, but it was all he had. The bronze knife was still in the house.

With a hiss, the door swung open. Sam’s finger flexed on the trigger.

Nothing came through.

A shiver of breath against the back of his neck. “Hello, Samuel.”

Sam swung around and the gun went flying from his hands, smacking the wall and clattering across the floor. Sam stepped back, gaze snapping to the weapon and then back to the monster standing before him.

It was tall; not as tall as Thor, but Sam didn’t have to look down on it, either. Unlike the only other Rakshasa he’d ever faced, this one wasn’t wearing a human guise. Blackish green skin reflecting the floodlight, it regarded him with slit-pupil eyes, stroking its matted red beard. It looked like every monster Sam had ever imagined before Dean had told him monsters were real, and now Sam was unarmed.

He stepped back again. “You’re the Rakshasa.”

“Clever boy.” Its voice sounded like brittle sticks rubbing together, and it started to circle him, sizing him up “Clever to know where to come, too.”

“Where’s Sadie?” Sam demanded, keeping his eyes straight forward, refusing to give any imitation of fear.

“She is here. Somewhere. And safe.” Rakshasa answered. “I’m sure you know how foolish it would be for you to run off and search for her. There are three levels in this building and she could be on any one of them. It’s doubtful you could find her before I found _you_ …and then I would be very angry.”

The monster didn’t have to say it, Sam just knew: he didn’t want to get on this thing’s bad side. Not yet.

“So then.” The Rakshasa stopped, facing Sam, arms crossed behind its back. “Freesia. Why do you fear it?”

“If I tell you,” Sam said, hedging. “You gotta let Sadie go.”

The Rakshasa’s cat-like eyes narrowed. “A hostage in exchange for an explanation. Hardly a fair bargain. Especially when I have theories already as to why you fear the flower.” It rubbed its bristly chin again; in the garish light, Sam could see that the creature’s whole body was covered in short hairs like quills. “Very well. You may have her once we’ve finished our chat.”

Sam took a deep breath; it wasn’t as if he trusted the thing. But there wasn’t much else he could do at this point except play along.

“My girlfriend, Jessica.” He said, his voice gruff. He cleared his throat. “She, uh, used to wear this perfume. It had freesia in it.”

“I see.” The Rakshasa murmured. “And your brother. He smells the antiseptic.”

“Because of our dad. He was Dean’s hero, and he died. In a hospital.”

“Hmmm.” The Rakshasa hummed. “Interesting.” It stepped back and looked up at the spotlight; in a tinkling burst of a bulb, the light shattered, flinging the room into a corona of pastel colors from the lights set into the walls. “Do you want to know my theory, Samuel?”

Skin prickling, Sam didn’t move.

“It is true Jessica’s smell offered you comfort. But do you know who else smelled of freesia?” Its teeth gleamed in a faint, wicked smile. “Your mother.”

Sam felt his eyes widen by a fraction as hard as he tried to control the shock that rippled through his body.

“Every day when she held you, the smell of freesia was in your infant nostrils. It’s no wonder you loved Jessica’s smell so much, when it reminded you of the safety of your mother’s phantom embrace.” The Rakshasa chuckled. “As for Dean—”

“Don’t.”

“Your father’s death.” The Rakshasa talked over him. “It was tragic, yes. But Dean knew the smell from somewhere else. Did you know that the man you fought in the ghost town of South Dakota was injured? The night he fell asleep in his foxhole, a piece of shrapnel cut his shoulder, and the medic assigned to his squadron treated it with antiseptic. The stench of it was still on his clothes when you wrestled with him—when you died in your brother’s arms.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “Are we done?”

The Rakshasa regarded him narrowly for what, to Sam, felt like several crawling minutes. Then it relaxed, arms swinging loose at its sides. “I sense you have questions of your own, Samuel.”

Sam started to protest, then checked himself. “Those vampires that attacked us. They were with you.”

“Yes, they were.”

“So why not help them kill us?” Sam demanded. “I know the lore. Your kind are powerful… _powerful_ demons. Is this some kinda game for you?”

The Rakshasa seemed to mull it over. “My species doesn’t have any love for you or your brother, Samuel Winchester. You are at best a nuisance and at worst, a tangible threat. There is chaos in the ranks, many different creatures vying for power. They want you both eliminated. Whereas I…I am merely curious.”

“Curious.” Sam echoed flatly.

“Curious as to why a human with such a tortured past could possibly do so much to foil our plans. To shut Purgatory, to continue to send monsters into the abyss. It’s a rare gift, Sam. It intrigues me.”

“You’re keeping me alive because you want to _study_ me?”

“On the contrary. I’ve seen no reason to keep you alive.” The Rakshasa flung out an arm and Sam flinched. “Come out now, girl!”

Somewhere behind Sam, the door eased open softly again. He looked over his shoulder and saw Sadie standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, sniffling. Her face was streaked with tears and Sam felt something wrench deep into his insides.

“Let her go.” He said evenly, fighting back the tremble of anger that threatened his voice. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“She’s as much a part of _this_ as you or I.” The Rakshasa beckoned and Sadie shuffled to join them, head down, fearful eyes pinned on her captor. Sam wanted to kill the thing just for making her look that way, like a puppy someone had kicked so much it expected to be kicked again.

Sadie walked past Sam and the Rakshasa took her shoulder, spinning her around to face Sam. She stared at the floor, shivering.

“ _Let_. Her go.” Sam said icily.

“This is what humans will become, Samuel.” The Rakshasa’s fingers tightened on Sadie’s arm and she winced, her head listing to one side. “Fodder between our fingers. The same thing you have made us.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.” Sam said, refusing to let himself feel uneasy. “Are you gonna keep your end of the deal?”

“I gave my word. Didn’t I?” The Rakshasa’s fingers released. “Go on, sweet little thing.”

Sadie’s gaze moved from the floor to Sam’s face, with that same kicked puppy look that made Sam flush with fury. Taming his anger, he extended his hand toward her.

“Sadie. C’mon.”

She glanced up at the Rakshasa, who looked back expressionlessly, and then she walked slowly to join Sam. She reached out and wound her fingers through his and Sam pushed her around behind him, facing the Rakshasa.

“You got what you wanted from me,” He said. “Are we done?”

“ _We_ are.” The Rakshasa said. “But for you, I’m afraid, it’s all only beginning.” The Rakshasa stepped back behind the pulpit. “Sadie. It’s time to kill him.”

Sam felt the blood rush from his head. “ _What_?”

Sadie’s hand slipped from his; in a movement that felt to Sam as fast as Thor’s lightning strike, she planted her foot in the backs of his knees and struck his head, knocking him onto the floor. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she swept his head up and back, pressing something against his throat: a knife, cold and sharp.

Sam pinned his glare on the Rakshasa, who wasn’t immune to the look.

“I thought you would have realized it by now. You said, after all, that you knew the lore. And while I filled some gaps in her memory with commands that she didn’t fully understand, you must realize this pretty thing was mine from the beginning.”

It fell into place for Sam like he’d been staring at it from that first second she’d stepped up to join him in the graveyard. Maybe he had. Maybe he’d just been hoping that, for once, things wouldn’t turn out this way.

“She’s a Revenant.” He said, swallowing against the cool kiss of the knife on his windpipe.

“She didn’t realize it, of course. Not at first. A bit of sorcery here, some meddling there, and all she remembered was being knocked to the ground by a boy at a party. That, and, well. She knew that she needed to find out as much about you as she could.” The Rakshasa plucked idly at his beard. “It was flawless, really. I daresay you’re losing your touch, Samuel.”

“You son of a bitch—”

“Please, let’s not be dramatic. She was dead when I found her. I simply used her to my purpose. In fact, you should be grateful—if I hadn’t been keeping a tight rein on her all this time, you might be here hunting a bloodthirsty Revenant terrorizing the innocents, rather than a lesser god bent on a single purpose.”

“You knew about Thor?”

“When you’re running a race, it pays to know your opponent.” The Rakshasa said. “And to know when you’re beaten.” He brushed past Sam, and stopped, laying a hand on Sadie’s shoulder. “It’s time, my sweet.”

Sam felt something change in Sadie; the hand in his hair tightened, the knife pressed closer into his throat. Whatever the Rakshasa had done to stave off her bloodlust, he realized, it had just been revoked.

“Goodbye, Samuel Winchester.” The Rakshasa called as he walked away. “I’m sure we won’t meet again.”

The knife bit down deeper, drawing blood.

Sam grabbed Sadie’s wrist and flung his weight backward, flipping her over his head and cracking her down on the dais. She rolled over with unnatural speed, hissing defiance as Sam scrambled to his feet and backed away toward his gun.

“Sadie…Sadie, stop.” He said, hoping that some part of her was hanging on, some part of the mythology minor, the English major, the girl he’d taken out on one date, Jessica’s cousin.

She lunged for him.

Sam twisted and sidestepped, letting her skid into the first pew. He made a break for the gun, almost reached it—pulled up short and jumped back, narrowly avoiding a slice from the knife as Sadie intercepted him. She sprang on his chest, slamming him back against the wall, and they went down with the knife back on Sam’s throat.

His training kicked in between one heartbeat and the next; Sam tucked in his chin, the blade cleaving against his cheek but sparing his carotid artery. He wedged his knee between their bodies and heaved sideways, throwing Sadie off. She spun across the stone floor and came back after him, the knife reflecting a mirage of multicolored refractions from the lights. Sam let her get close, then planted his boot in her gut, flinging her over and smashing the front pew to pieces.

Sam grabbed the knife, spun up onto his knees and fired blind; the shot missed by a mile as Sadie picked herself up out of the wooden wreckage. Sam took aim and fired again, this time hitting her shoulder. She screamed, the sound piercing in the acoustic ribbing of the nave, and leaped

Sam rolled out of the way and crawled to the dais, dragged himself to his feet and ran to the altar. He went for one of the silver chalices on the tribute, hoping to burn her with it, to stop her long enough for a good shot—and missed as Sadie’s weight struck his back, knocking him up against the crucifix beside the table. Sam felt at least one rib cracking as he went down; he couldn’t breathe, stars popping in his eyes. Sadie grabbed his head and dragged it back, breathing hot and heavy in his ear.

“ _Max_.” She hissed.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, pulled the gun out from under his body, jammed the muzzle over his shoulder and fired.

Sadie’s grip went slack; she slithered off of him. Sam sat up, put his shoulders against the crucifix and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

The bullet had torn open a hole through Sadie’s mouth and the back of her head. Her wide, staring green eyes were fixed on the broken spotlight.

Sam didn’t try to fight the knot in his throat as he scooted closer to her; he lifted her body gently from the purple cloth on the dais and stroked her hair from her face. A stone of anger and shame settled in his gut—that he hadn’t noticed sooner. That he hadn’t realized when he saw how she wasn’t sleeping, how calm she was with everything that was happening, the questions, _everything_. It had all been the Rakshasa pulling his strings to learn about him. And Sam had fallen right in, because it was Jessica’s cousin.

He leaned his forehead against Sadie’s and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

He moved his hand to the back of her head and felt something sticky peeling off beneath his fingers. He pulled back to look and saw the pinking skin around the scar on her neck melting off, revealing an ugly black gash beneath: more of the Rakshasa’s magic corroding, revealing the mark of a Revenant, the lingering stain of the wound that had killed it.

Sam tucked the gun into his waistband, swung Sadie’s body up into his arms and carried her out of the church, not bothering to shut off the light, clean up the blood, reset the alarm. In a daze, he laid her body in the backseat of the beater and started driving.

Eleanor Pardee Park was less than five minutes away, but Sam felt like he was unraveling at the seams by the time he pulled up and parked. Making a quick sweep to make sure no one was within eyesight, he got out, shrugged off his jacket and overshirt and used them to cover Sadie’s body. Then he carried her behind a grove of trees and went back to the beater.

Of course, like with all cars Bobby loaned them, this one came well stocked. It wasn’t long before Sam was watching the salted, burned corpse emitting smoke from the shallow grave he had dug, leaning his weight on the shovel. Sam did nothing to fight the tracks the tears carved through the dirt on his face; so often now he felt like he was just holding things together. Trying to prove to Dean, to Bobby, even to himself that he was strong enough to do anything they asked of him, no matter the cost, no matter how much it hurt. Asking his mom to leave their dad so Sam himself would never be born; letting Lucifer in, knowing he would have to throw himself into the pit; drinking four gallons of demon blood after he’d done so much to fight it. But it didn’t matter if it meant his death, it didn’t matter if he’d have to see the anguish and disappointment in his brother’s eyes, in Castiel’s, in Bobby’s. It was all for the greater good.

Sam felt tired, standing over that shallow grave he’d dug for a girl he barely knew, who’d made him feel normal for a few hours, accepted him in a way that he—God, he should have _known_ it was too good to be true, all of it. But he’d wanted so badly to believe coming back here could change things.

Now he knew better, and it hurt so badly he could barely breathe. He’d had to shoot Jessica’s cousin in the head, a person who, according to Sadie herself, had been like a sister to Jess.

One-by-one, Sam felt like he was letting everyone down.

He rested his forehead on the handle of the shovel and closed his eyes, letting the thoughts slowly process through until everything started sinking in: what the Rakshasa had told him about monsters. Making humans their slaves as retribution for humans leashing them.

It didn’t make sense, the Rakshasa had been in Purgatory too long, it was behind on the times; monsters weren’t being constrained to human will, they were being killed to protect the innocent. And enslaving the human race wouldn’t do much for their cause.

Steely resolve trickled into his bones. Sam knew he couldn’t save Sadie, couldn’t save Jess, couldn’t stop the things that had already happened. But he could still fight.

He crouched on the edge of the grave. “I’ll get the bastard that did this to you, Sadie.” His gaze traveled the length of the grave and he pulled in a shaky breath. “I promise.”

He yanked on his bloodstained overshirt and wadded up his jacket, tossing it into the passenger seat. He pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Dean.

It went straight to voicemail.

“Dammit, Dean, pick up!” Sam snarled, sliding into the front seat. This was the last thing he needed. He ended the call and dialed back. Voicemail again.

Sam shut down the part of his mind that felt whiplash worry. Dean was chasing Thor. Thor would probably leave signs of his passing the way he had outside of Sadie’s apartment with the chaotic lightning storm.

Sam grabbed his phone in his mouth, reached over to crank on the radio and started to redial.

The phone blared in his hand.

Sam checked the caller ID, then answered. “Bobby, I’m fine.”

“This ain’t fine, Sam. You hearin’ the news?”

Sam checked the radio. The signal was flickering in and out. He reached over and popped it with the heel of his hand. “Signal’s really bad.”

“That isn’t the signal. You got demonic omens goin’ off like fireworks again, Sam. Hell, they’re reportin’ it all the way up here in my neck’a the woods. People poppin’ off the face of the map, storms, tidal waves high as a house, all within the last hour or so. This ain’t normal omens, Sam. Not even close. Don’t make a lick’a sense either; unless the demons are following you boys. But this ain’t like outside’a Essex, it’s about a hundred times worse.”

Sam checked the rearview mirror and saw a swarm of dark clouds festering on the horizon. “What’s going on, Bobby?”

“Not sure. You better keep your head down and find your brother. This is bad, Sam. This is real bad.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

_December 15 th, 2011_

_Van Buren Road_ _, Palo Alto, California_

Dean dropped the game face as soon as he pulled away from the house.

He smacked the steering wheel and let out a stream of swearwords that would’ve made even his dad, who’d taught him _how_ to swear, turn red. Would’ve earned him a good beating, too. But Dean just kept swearing until he was hoarse, slamming back and forth in the seat. And then he finally calmed down enough to think.

The last time they’d faced lesser gods, he and Sam had escaped by the skin off their teeth, and that thanks to Gabriel, who’d saved their asses at the cost of his own. Now this dick had Gabriel’s son, and like it or not, Dean was in this for the long-haul. Problem was, he didn’t know where Thor had escaped to. Unlike monsters and spirits that followed set patterns, these enemies were unpredictable as hell. Thor could go anywhere. And as much as Dean really didn’t care about Jordie, he had a serious problem with god-sized hissy-fits. In Dean’s experience, they usually ended up spelling death for more than a handful of innocent people.

That was how he ended up on Van Buren Road, after half an hour of driving and no concrete plans. Dean put the Impala in park on the roadside, dug out the police radio from the glove compartment, flicked it on and put it on the dashboard. Then he sat back and turned on the heat.

A distant rattle hummed up from the vents; a smile flicked across Dean’s face and he slumped back, propping his head on his fist, staring out the windshield at the underside of the One-Oh-One running north and south in front of the Impala. He figured a crossroads—where one highway met another one—was as good a place as any to stake out and wait to hear something over the radio.

Truth was, his face and arm were killing him. Dean had been through a lot of things in the hunting business—shot, stabbed, beaten to within an inch of his life, electrocuted, mauled, reamed, bled dry, had his stomach infected with cancer, gotten his guts turned into confetti—but being burned was still a bitch. He hated the sticky feeling of his skin and the way even _moving_ sent shocks through his nerve-endings.

So while he had time to kill, he dug the last roll of gauze out of the dinky first-aid kit Sam had put together years ago in Sioux Falls on a break between cases. It had taken them this long to run it dry simply because they were used to using whatever was convenient: dirty dishrags, floss and whiskey, their jackets, their own hands, anything available in the heat of the moment to patch up a wound. The first-aid kit took backseat to loading up on weapons for a hunt.

Right now, Dean was pretty damned grateful they’d left the thing around this long. It felt good not to have the wind biting against his burns as he wound the spool of gauze up the raw red abrasion on his arm; he flipped down the rearview mirror and frowned at his face. His hair was getting long, tufts of it flopping over his left eye, and it was burned off in chunks.

“Son of a bitch.” He muttered, scruffing his hand over the damage and flaking more of his hair off. “Great.” He wadded up a square of gauze and taped it into place over the worst of the burn, then tossed the roll back under the seat. He went back to relaxing, staring up at the roof of the Impala. It felt good to be back in his car, hearing the purr of the engine, those stupid Legos clattering inside the vents. Better than a broken-down beater car, whatever miracles Bobby had worked to get that thing running. Let Sam benefit from the joys of it.

Dean still remembered the first time his dad had let him drive the Impala; twelve years old, John had handed him the keys and said, “Time for a driving lesson, son.”

Dean hadn’t gotten them killed that time, but he’d come awfully close. After that, any time they’d been on country roads where police activity was on the down low, John would pull over and swap seats with Dean; letting him get the feel for the car, get to know how she ran from the driver’s point of view as much as he already knew at that point how her insides worked.

When Dean was barely fourteen and staying with Bobby, John had called. Dean, supposed to be in bed, had eavesdropped in on a conversation that had made his blood curdle. Bobby had been asking, _demanding_ of John what he was supposed to tell Dean and Sam when their father never came home. Dean hadn’t been able to hear the answer from his father, but Bobby’s retort that “preparedness don’t mean nothin’ when you’re ten damn years old and your dad disappears on ya,” had decided it for him. He’d begged, pleaded and finally threatened the truth out of Bobby as soon as he’d hung up.

John had been hunting with an old friend, Jackson. Jackson was dead and John was stranded in Wyoming backwoods with a Wendigo on his trail. He was hurt. He wasn’t getting out of this one. He wanted Bobby to watch over Sam and Dean.

Dean hadn’t hesitated. As soon as Bobby had gone to try to break the news to Sam, Dean had filched the Impala’s keys from the kitchen counter and left the yard.

He’d driven all through the night, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, hoping, _praying_ he wasn’t too late. He’d gotten to the place he’d seen in his dad’s journal before John had dropped them off, and he’d started tracking, using every skill he’d learned so far. And he’d found his dad on the run, the Wendigo hot on his ass.

Dean hadn’t hesitated; he’d caught up to them, driven the Impala off the road, smashed the Wendigo to the ground, jumped out and Molotoved the thing. Like he’d done it a hundred times.

He still remembered his dad grabbing him by the collar, slamming him back against the car, not really hard enough to hurt, telling him: “Dean, you listen to me. Don’t ever be that reckless again, understand me? Don’t you ever do that for me.”

Dean had been shaking, almost crying even though he was fourteen and too much of a man for that. “I’m sorry, dad.”

John had hugged him, hard, the blood from his compound-fractured ribs soaking his shirt and Dean’s.

It had been a race to get back to Bobby’s after that, to keep his dad awake and talking. They’d gotten in and found Bobby waiting for them, and Sam, on the porch, the older holding the younger’s shoulder like he thought Sam would explode out of his skin.

Dean had parked the car and helped his dad get out, and Bobby had let Sam loose. Dean had leaned against the Impala while Sam ran to their dad, and John had put out a hand, stopping Sam, ruffling his hair.

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Ashen, eyes pale with pain, he’d still been smiling. “It’s all right. It’s fine.”

Only Dean had noticed how heavily John leaned on Bobby as he walked into the house, how much blood he was losing.

And then Sam had run to Dean, punched him hard in the gut and hugged him so hard it had hurt.

“Ow! Stop it, you little bitch!” Dean had snapped, glancing at the door as he said it to make sure John couldn’t hear him.

“You’re a jerk! You shouldna left me behind!” Sam had complained, face buried in Dean’s shirt. “You coulda _died_ , Dean!”

“Heroes don’t die.” Dean had replied haughtily. Then he’d grabbed Sam’s shoulder, pushed him out at arm’s length and knelt, shaking him slightly. “Stop crying over it, Sammy, okay? Dad’s fine. I’m fine. You can’t be crying about us all the time. You gotta be tough.”

Sam had wiped his face on his sleeve. “I am tough.”

Dean had laughed, messing up his little brother’s hair. “Yeah, I know you are.”

Sam had tucked his hands into his armpits and hunched his shoulders. “Why’d you take the car? Uncle Bobby said she’s dad’s.”

Dean had stood up, one hand on Sam’s shoulder, facing the Impala. “That baby’s special, Sammy. She’s always been there for us, like, ever since we were born. Some day, when dad says it’s okay, I’ll teach you how to drive her. You’ll see what I mean.”

Dean ran his hand across the dashboard. “You an’ me, baby. We got this.”

Yeah, it was good to be back in his car.

The reprieve didn’t last; Dean hadn’t been stationary for long when the police radio burst with chatter: units being called to Embarcadero Road. A cache of strange weapons found in a house-fire. Possible terrorist activity. Local P.D. on alert.

“What, so we’re terrorists now?” Dean grumbled, cranking up the volume.

“Copy that. Dispatching units from East Palo Alto.”

“Yahtzee.” Dean grabbed Sam’s laptop from under the seat and started searching for directions.

 

 

The East Palo Alto Police Department wasn’t a fancy joint; in fact Dean would’ve expected to see squatters outside if he hadn’t known what he was looking at. He parked a block away, changed into a suit that was starting to hang loose on him in a kind of unhealthy, lack-of-cheeseburgers way, and pulled out one of the many fake IDs Sam had been smart enough to leave in the trunk. Tucking it into his inside pocket, he drove back around to the front of the building and headed inside.

The girl at the front desk was redheaded, cute, and a little too old for his taste. Didn’t stop Dean from cracking out the charm.

“Howdy, sweetheart.” He leaned on the counter, catching her eye with a grin. “The guys bring over the cache from that house fire yet?”

“Who wants to know?” The cop asked suspiciously.

Dean whipped out the ID. “Agent McKagen, FBI.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Wow. You guys must be swamped. There’s already an agent here. He’s cleaning out the evidence locker as we speak.” She looked down, then quickly back up, sudden alarm in her eyes. “He looked kind of suspicious, like, really shaken up. He _is_ one of yours, right?”

“Big moosey kinda guy, puppy eyes?” Dean asked.

“If you wanna call them that, then yeah, I guess he did.”

“Mm-hm.” Dean smirked. “Yeah, he’s one of ours. Agent, uh…”

The girl peered at him closely. “Clearwater?”

“Yeah, him. Sorry, he’s a new guy. I suck at names.”

“Right.” She studied him. “What’s the FBI care about a house fire case in Palo Alto? Seems like it’s kind of out of your jurisdiction.”

“We got a pretty good lead tellin’ us that all those weapons your boys found are part of an arms-race, terrorist kinda thing. Sound like FBI stuff to you?”

The cop pursed her lips. “Well, it’s definitely above my pay grade.” She admitted. “What happened to your face?”

“I was defending my honor.”

“Was that a reference to ‘The Last Airbender’?”

“What? No!” Dean paused. “Why? D’you like that stuff?”

She rolled her eyes. “Good grief, do you actually think you’re funny?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer, nodding to the door on his right. “Evidence locker is through there. Last door on the left. Should be unlocked if your partner’s still in there.”

“Thanks,” He checked her shiny silver nameplate. “ _Jillian_.”

“You’re welcome, _Agent McKagen_.” She went back her paperwork and determinedly avoided his eyes.

Her loss.

Dean headed into a linoleum-tiled, fluorescent-lit hallway with mint-colored walls and took the last door on the left, pushing it soundlessly open with the tips of his fingers.

Sam was sitting on a silver revolving stool, pushing it slowly from side to side with one foot and reading the case folder. Dean debated the merits of sneaking up and scaring the crap out of him—then remembered that this wasn’t the same kid Sam he’d been pranking all his life. This Sam might take a swing at him.

“You probably know what’s in the lock-up, Sam. It’s all dad’s stuff.”

Sam kicked the chair around with that familiar Thank-God-You’re-Okay look that Dean had been coming home to since as far back as he could remember. Sam got to his feet and slapped the file down on the stainless-steel chair.

“Where were you? I called you probably ten times.”

“Huh. Guess I left my phone in that house.” Dean shrugged it off. “Whatever. Great minds think alike, huh? Can’t take on a lesser god without a freakin’ arsenal, right? And a couple buckets’a luck.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not all here.” He said, motioning Dean over to a small evidence locker at ground level. Sam pulled out a bag of weapons and tossed them to Dean. “A couple of the guns were ruined. We’re out of salt. And Dead Man’s Blood.”

“Bobby’s got that stuff. No biggie.”

“Actually, it is a big deal.” Sam said grimly. “Bobby called. There are omens, _huge_ omens popping up all over the place.”

“Yeah, heard something about that on my way over.” Dean kicked the locker shut and shook the bag around, taking a look at the flame-tarnished knives. “What’re you thinkin’, big-ass demon?” He paused, then added carefully, “Meg?”

“I don’t think so. Doesn’t seem like her style.” Sam broke off and scrubbed his face with one hand. That was when Dean really noticed how worn-down his brother looked, face and hands caked with dirt, bruises shadowing the contours of his face.

“What happened out there, Sam? You find Sadie?”

Sam’s lips jerked back into a quick, broken smile. “Yeah, I found her. You were right, the Rakshasa had her.”

“The son of a bitch didn’t hurt her, did he?”

“No. She was already dead, Dean. She was a Revenant.”

Dean blinked, surprised but trying not to show it. “That doesn’t make any sense. Y’know, Revenants can’t _function_ in society. They just walk around looking for revenge. Like ghosts. Sadie seemed like your typical college girl to me.”

“It sounded like the Rakshasa was controlling her. Using her to get the scoop on us.” Sam looked wretched. “He told her to kill me, and then he used some kinda sorcery on her. When she attacked me,” He paused for a few seconds. “She called me Max.”

“That the guy who killed her?” Dean asked. Sam nodded. “So she thought you were him?”

Sam gave a helpless shrug.

“All right, Sam, we’ll ice that bastard first chance we get. Right now, we gotta find Thor and stop him from startin’ his own little Halfling Superbowl.” He started to stuff the bag full of knives into the inside pocket of his suit, then stopped. “Hold up a sec. Halflings.”

Sam looked at him sideways, brows raised. “Yeah?”

“He said Jordie was Gabriel’s kid, right?”

“Well, if Gabriel really was Loki—”

“ _And_ , Gabriel was an archangel.” Dean said, cutting off Sam’s academic response. “No point in pitting a pair’a angel spawn against each other, right? They’re gonna be about the same if we’re talkin’ raw supernova, here.”

“So Thor needs someone else.” Sam said thoughtfully. “Someone who can match Jordie’s power. Or get the upper hand on him.”

“Right. And who else has that kinda mojo?”

Sam stared at him and Dean could see the pieces clicking in his head. Sam’s eyes widened with dread. “Jesse.”

“Explains the omens. Kid’s close by, and man, is he pissed.”

“How’d Thor find him? Cass looked everywhere, Dean. It’s like he disappeared off the planet. Hell, I thought maybe he _did_.”

“I dunno, Sam. But Thor’s got him and Jordie wrapped up in some cosmic pissing match and if we don’t stop it, those kids could blow the whole freakin’ seaboard sky high.”

The spinning chair vibrated slightly, inching across the tiles toward them. The brothers looked at it in synchrony and Dean swallowed hard.

Sam’s eyes pulled tight with distress. “I think they’re already starting to.”

“All right, let’s move!” Dean crammed the evidence bag into his pocket and headed out the door, Sam on his heels. They ran past the front counter, ignoring Jillian when she yelled after them, “Hey! You need to sign for the stuff you took!”, letting the door swing shut on her protests.

It felt like the vibration followed them outside; except it wasn’t just a vibration, Dean realized, it was an earthquake, picking up strength the longer it lasted, sweeping across the ground under their feet like waves moving inside the asphalt. The horizon was frothing with bruise-colored clouds, the air statically charged around them for the second time that day.

“I’m already sick of this crap.” Dean muttered, brushing past Sam. “C’mon!”

They ran, staggering to keep their balance as a yawning rip split down the sidewalk, jarring the street with a rippling tension spreading the fissure toward their feet. Dean slung himself into the front seat and saw Sam jump into the beater car parked in the adjacent lot. He spurred the Impala into gear and slewed around, coming up parallel to Sam.

“Call Bobby!” He yelled above the creaking, snapping sounds of the buildings around them shaking to their foundations. “Tell him where we’re at, have him call every hunter in the whole damn city that he knows of, and start warning people!”

“That’s not gonna be many hunters!”

“Just do it, Sam!” Dean threw the Impala into reverse and swung her back across the shaking street. Tires bumping as the ground heaved beneath them, he divided his focus between making sure he didn’t crash, and trying to figure out where the hell he was even going to find Thor.

Omens generally had a source, a focal point, someplace they were centered. Usually the radio was a good outlet for that, but in this kind of chaos no one would be paying much attention to origins, and there was no telling how far the power of two Halflings could spread when their mojo collided. They could be anywhere in or around the city, and still make their affects felt on the population.

            Lightning strafed through the sky, reflections on the buildings around them glinting like glass in bright sunlight. Dean yanked the Impala hard right to avoid a sewer lid blasting into the air, and swore as the car hit a rut, went briefly airborne, then slammed back down on the unstable asphalt.

            A flash of rust-red metal glimmered in the corner of his eye as Sam, fishtailing, pulled up beside him. He had his cell phone pinned between his ear and shoulder and was pointing up, fast and urgent. Dean threw up one hand and mouthed, “ _What the hell do you want me to do_?”

            Sam’s car drifted closer to the Impala.

            “Watch it, Sam!” Dean poured on the gas and finally caught a sideways glimpse of what Sam was mouthing at him.

            _Pull over_!

            “Okay, what the hell.” Dean slammed on the brakes and climbed out.

            Sam beat him to the chase, shoving his phone in his pocket. “We need to get on top of one of these buildings. If we can see the cityscape, maybe we can tell where this thing is coming from.”

            Dean looked up at the towering infrastructures around them, leery at the idea of being inside any one of them during an earthquake. But it was their best shot for finding origins in a place that was this much a maze of byways, highways and side streets. They’d get stuck chasing their tails for hours otherwise.

            “All right, go. Go!” He pushed on Sam’s arm to turn him toward the tallest building in the immediate area, across the street and half a block from where they were standing. Dodging scatters of debris that crumbled into their path as older structures sloughed off their hides, they’d almost made it to the building when the rain started, needle-nosed bullets of ice that pelted Dean’s skin as he ripped his jacket off and untucked his shirt, giving him more room to move his arms.

            Sam flung the door open and they stepped into a deserted lobby; not that surprising considering they hadn’t seen any cars out front, either. The massive sign behind the circular front desk announced that this was a publishing house. The bookshelves lining the glass front walls backed that up.

            “Elevator or stairs?” Dean asked, only half-serious. Sam shot him a bitchfaced look and Dean took a deep breath. “Stairs it is.”

            Somewhere deep under their feet, a long, ear-splitting groan ratcheted up, up into their bones, shuddering the walls on every side and making the glass in the front windows quiver slightly and buckle inward.

            “Move it!” Dean hollered, and Sam dove for the staircase, grabbing the railing and leaping up the steps two at a time.

            The building was at least six or seven stories—at least, because Dean wasn’t counting. They were following the staircase that wrapped around a center pole in the lobby when an aftershock blew the windows inward, hurling glass shards like bullets toward them. Dean’s reaction was pure instinct, grabbing Sam, shoving him toward the middle of the staircase and stepping between him and the trajectory.

            The thin, starchy suit shirt tore as the glass showered Dean’s arms, but the tiny slivers didn’t leave much behind other than nicks and scratches and itching pain. He kept moving, all but jumping up the steps to keep up with Sam’s long-legged stride. The wind howling through the broken frames of the windows was hot and cold at the same time and reminded Dean of when he was barely four years old, the day a tornado had ripped through Lawrence, Kansas, and he’d almost been stranded outside. He remembered how the air had felt, like it was stuck between summer and winter, and so still and thick he could’ve drowned in it.

            He remembered his dad picking him up and breathing into his hair, “I got you, Dune, I got you. Nothing’s gonna happen to you, kiddo.”

            Dean paused to catch his breath and shook off the memory. When Sam stopped as well to look back at him, Dean gritted his teeth. “Keep going.”

            They climbed, never seeming to get anywhere, the wind kicking up speed. And then the staircase dead-ended at an offset door, and they stepped through it into a corridor, also with glass walls, that stretched across the cubicles of the publishing house.

            Dean glared. “Dude, someone needs to find the guy who designed this place, drag him out into the street and shoot him.”

            “Yeah.” Sam looked uneasy. “Dean, this whole thing is glass.”

            “Yep. And I spy with my little eyes,” He pointed past Sam, toward the door across the corridor from them. “That.”

            From this angle, they could see where it met the far wall.

            “Nowhere else to go.” Sam said bleakly.

            “We’re gonna hafta make a run for it, Sammy.”

            “Great.” Sam settled back into a runner’s stance. “Ready?”

            “Hell no.” Dean waited until the faint vibrations of the next aftershock had faded out from the soles of his feet. “Go!”

            The first few steps were as easy as walking on solid ground. Then the next quake hit like a palpable force slamming into the walls around them, and Dean saw a splintering crack racing toward them across the walkway. The reinforced glass buckled and groaned against a kind of pressure it had never been meant to withstand, an earthquake ten times as powerful as anything California had ever witnessed, and it was splintering with a high-pitched whine that stabbed Dean’s ears.

            “Dammit!” He lunged forward, shoving Sam with his shoulder. “ _Move_ it, Sam!”

            Midstride, Dean’s foot hit the furrow as it chased itself across the walkway.

            The floor exploded in a shower like iridescent rainfall. For two, three seconds Dean thought he was going to slam down and impale himself on the lethal panes that were breaking apart on the desks and cubicle walls beneath him. Then he realized he’d hit the ledge, having jumped for safety by instinct; his crossed arms were the only things keeping him hanging on to the edge.

            “Crap.” His feet kicked and scrabbled uselessly against the slick wall.

            A hand grabbed his elbow; Sam’s face appeared above him, a twisted mixture of determination and anxiety. “I got you, Dean. I got you.”

            “Great. Gimmie a hand.” Forcing his locked grip to loosen, Dean reached up, grabbed Sam’s forearm and used the leverage of his brother’s strength to boost himself up and swing one leg over the edge. He toppled to safety, knocking Sam back onto the floor. They lay sprawled at the foot of a wide but shallow staircase leading up to the next level, propped on their elbows and breathing hard.

            “How about we don’t ever do something like that again?” Sam said, shooting Dean a relieved but still strained glance.

            “You got it.” Dean put a hand to the wall and hauled himself to his feet. “C’mon, we got this.”

            They mounted the steps to the next level and followed a plaque leading them to the nearest exit; less than a minute later they climbed one last flight of stairs and burst out onto the gravel-topped roof.

            In the span of time they’d spent inside the publishing house, chaos had taken over. The sky was swirling black, the air brackish and clammy, almost like the cold spots ghosts would leave behind. Dean stopped in the doorway and felt Sam bump into him and squeeze into the doorway beside him.

            “Dean, this is bad.” Sam said, staring out over the battered buildings with more apprehension than Dean had seen from him in a long time. His matted dark hair whipped in the gale-force winds. “They’re ripping the city apart.”

            “See anything?” Dean asked, squinting.

            Sam walked slowly forward, each step deliberate; Dean watched, tense, the wind slapping his untucked shirt against his sides, as his brother canvassed this Stepford, downtown hell that had been his home for the worst years of Dean’s life.

            “Got it!” Sam pointed southeast. “See that?”

            Dean didn’t see much other than storm clouds and shaking buildings, until Sam pointed. That was when he noticed the green tinge in the sky, the maelstrom swirling on the horizon like the eye of a hurricane.

            “The hell’s out there?” He muttered.

            “More buildings,” Sam began, and then he got a classic Oh-Please-No expression. “There’s an airport on that side of the city.”

            “You wanna let a coupla kids duke it out, might as well give ’em a good playing field.” Dean reached over and smacked Sam on the arm with the back of his hand. “Let’s motor. We’re runnin’ outta time.”

            “Dean, we might already be too late to stop this.”

            “Yeah? Well, you know me. Too stubborn to know when to quit.” He started for the door, stopped, and walked to the edge of the building.

            “What are you doing?” Sam called after him.

            Dean pointed to the fire escape. “Gotta use our heads, Sammy.”

            “Right.”

            Dean let Sam head down first, and as soon as he was out of Dean’s line of sight, the mask slipped off. Dean looked back at that vortex spinning through the clouds and felt cold biting down his throat, suffocating him.

            They were about to gate-crash a party Dean wasn’t sure they were up for.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_December 15 th, 2011_

_Airport_ _of Santa Clara County, Palo Alto, California_

The weirdest part was how calm things were when they got to the airport.

            The storm kept up, hammering the sides of the Impala as Dean pushed eighty miles an hour down the One-Oh-One, Sam barely keeping up in that ugly-ass beater car. The rain was falling so hard the windshield looked like a waterfall and whatever direction Dean got was from glimpses every ten or fifteen seconds. He was white-knuckling it, pedal to the floor, feeling like he was walking a wire.

            And then they hit the outskirts of East Palo Alto, and things got calm; not the kind of calm that made you think you’d survived Hell, but the kind that promised the action hadn’t even started yet. Dean peered up through the windshield and saw the murky greenish-black clouds right overhead, swirling slowly together, lightning flickering in the creases.

            No wind. No rain. Nothing. Like the whole damn thing was holding its breath.

            Dean eased off the gas and let Sam take the lead off the highway, since this was his sandbox from years gone by. Sam took point easily, cruising through mostly deserted streets; whoever had decided not to get the hell outta town was boarded up inside their houses. The place felt like a ghost town—which, for California, was the Apocalypse all over again.

            The first signs of damage they saw in the area were just outside the airport: twisted heaps of bright white aluminum foil, it looked like, chucked into the middle of the street. Except when they drove by Dean thought he saw a propeller. And a wing. Like a huge hand had picked up one of the leer jets and crushed it pop-can style.

            “We are in _way_ over ours heads, here.” Dean said under his breath, easing off of Sam’s back bumper. He hated this different-cars deal. It was hard enough watching Sam’s back when they were sharing the same front seat, let alone with Dean knowing that if that car got hit or blasted sky-high, he’d be powerless to do anything other than watch.

            And man, he was _sick_ of watching Sam die.

            He shoved that thought down hard and fast and capped it, Winchester-style. Negativity wasn’t really his thing, and besides, they had work to do.

            Sam drove past the airport, keeping it on his left, then slowed to a crawl when they were out of eyeshot. He pulled around the next corner, braked hard and got out before the car had stopped rocking. Dean took a deep breath, flexed his hands on the steering wheel, grabbed the bags of knives and got out too.

            “We’re not gonna have much time,” Sam said as he joined Dean at the Impala. He tossed Dean a change of clothes, shucked off his starched white-collar deal and slipped into a plain t-shirt—better for fighting in, and the bloodstains would come out easier.

            “Yeah. I know.” Dean dumped out the bags of knives on top of the trunk. “Whaddya think?”

            Sam scoffed slightly. “Bring _all_ of it, man. We’re taking on a god, here.”

            “Took a lot of pretty bad mojo for the devil to ice one of these guys, Sam.” Dean held up their old demon-killing knife casually between two fingers. “Not sure a little pig-sticker’s gonna do much good.”

            Sam grabbed the knife with a venomous look. “It’s all we’ve got.”

            “I’ll stick to my guns, thanks.” Dean swapped out shirts and grabbed a sawed-off shotgun out of the backseat. “All right, let’s waste this bitch.”

            A smile flickered across Sam’s face as he shoved two of the knives into his pockets and picked up their vampire-killing machete.

            They crossed the street with the sunset clashing against the maelstrom overhead. The color tinge reminded Dean of some cheesy horror flicks he’d seen with Ben. They hopped the chained-link fence and dropped onto the edge of the tarmac. Sam motioned silently for Dean to take the lead, and he did, shotgun sweeping back and forth across the terrain. The runway extended across an open grassy field with trees on the far side; not much cover. Dean’s skin prickled.

            They headed toward the two-story hangar and put their backs to the wall, listening, weapons ready.

            Dean didn’t hear anything at first; then he realized the wall was shaking slightly between his shoulder blades.

            He reached over and hit Sam’s chest with the back of his hand. Their eyes met and Dean jerked his head at the side of the hangar. Sam put his ear to the wall and Dean saw his eyes slide out of focus as he listened.

            He straightened up. “Someone’s in there.”

            Dean stepped back and took inventory of the building; there was a window maybe fifteen feet above their heads. Sam was pretty tall, but that’d be a stretch for him even standing on Dean’s shoulders. Although his instinct was to go in guns blazing, the idea of colliding with Thor, Jesse or Jormungander in a situation like this had about as much appeal as getting a sledgehammer to the jewels.

            He signaled Sam to move around the building, and they did, passing the enormous hangar doors that fed onto the runway. They ran across the tarmac and got around the far side, where a small steel door was set into the wall.

            Sam looked at Dean, eyebrows raised. Dean nodded, put a finger to his lips to signal for quiet, and tested the doorknob gingerly. It was cold to the touch, and unlocked. Dean eased it inward and Sam covered him, slipping in first. Dean was one step behind, shutting the door softly and turning to face the hangar.

            It was in the same state of disrepair as the road leading up to the airport had been, twisted heaps of planes turned inside-out scattered across the concrete floor. There was a staircase immediately to Sam and Dean’s right and they took it, climbing up into the loft where jet parts were stored.

            It was impossible not to hear the voices at this point; the acoustics were phenomenal inside the hangar.

            “—Done throwing a tantrum, aren’t we?”

            Thor; Dean recognized that arrogant growly voice. His finger tightened on the trigger and he met Sam’s gaze briefly. They slunk across the top floor, pressed against the wall so they couldn’t be seen.

            “I want to know why.” The deceptively calm voice was the same kind of familiar as déjà-vu, the pitch deeper than Dean remembered it. Jesse Turner. It couldn’t be anyone else. “Why’d you bring us here?”

            “Surely a whelp as gifted as yourself would have noticed by now.” Thor rumbled. “Time and time again, the authority of the gods is challenged. Now we see the arrogance of the humans reaching new heights. We’ve stood aside and watched humanity rip itself apart through greed and anger—I daresay we’ve even enjoyed it. But this is too great a threat to let the humans piddle around with it. It’s time we intervened and claimed the greatest power for our own kind.”

            Sam stopped so suddenly Dean almost ran into him. He made a sweeping motion with his hand, got down on his knees and soldier-crawled to the end of the loft. Rolling his eyes, Dean dropped and followed him, dragging himself by his elbows to the edge of the second floor, looking down into the empty center of the hangar.

            Jordie and Jesse were unmistakable, tied to high-backed steel chairs in the middle of the hangar. Thor was pacing in front of them, arms crossed behind his back. Dean swallowed; had the god been that tall the last time they saw him?

            “I don’t wanna play your _games_!” Jordie spat, his thin, high-pitched voice echoing back with finality off the walls. “I’m not some, some _toy_!”

            “That’s exactly right, you aren’t.” Thor swung around to face him. “You are a weapon. You both are. Ones that my fellow gods would have done well to put to use in the Judeo-Christian Apocalypse that’s just passed. Many of them paid a dear price for that lapse of foresight. But now that we face the prospect of your powers being turned against us, the time for action has arrived. We have no regard for your pacifisity.”

            “Pacifisity.” Dean whispered. “Try saying that five times fast.”

            Sam elbowed him hard.

            “You can’t make us do it.” Jesse sounded pretty brave, for a thirteen-year-old facing a god twice his height. “We’re stronger then you.”

            “Granted.” Thor nodded. “But you are untrained. Your powers come in fits and spurts. Whereas I? I have been around for centuries, little worm. I can and _will_ crush you under my boot if you so much as twitch a finger toward me.”

            “Sam, we gotta do somethin’.” Dean muttered.

            “Just hold on.” Sam brought one leg in close to his body and started worrying loose one of the smaller knives.

            “Why us?” Jordie demanded. “Why choose _us_?”

            “Because you are the last two Halflings in existence.” Thor replied. “The only ones with the gall and capability of crushing monsters and mankind alike. Even our powers will be nothing next to yours, if you’re properly trained. Would that we could have you both. But your powers would never mingle. After all, isn’t it said that demons and angels are meant to kill one another?”

            “How’s he keeping Jesse pinned down?” Dean demanded. “Kid can teleport, right? Why doesn’t he just beam outta here?”

            “Because of his demon blood.” Sam nodded to the floor. “Look.”

            It took Dean a few seconds of squinting, but he finally noticed the thin lines of chalk that looked a lot like a—

            “Devil’s Trap?”

            Sam nodded. “Must be affecting his blood.”

            “So I’m guessin’ Jordie…” He took a hard look around the kid’s chair. “That look like a circle of Holy Oil to you?”

            “Yup.”

            “Super. This guy knows his stuff. Guess he wrestled the kids in there to stop ’em from blowin’ up the city when they woke up and figured out where they were.”

            Sam nodded bleakly.

            “If you’re both done with this charade of resistance, we can settle this once and for all.” Thor said, gaze moving from one boy to the other. “I will release you from your restraints and leave you to business. I want to see a battle—a true test of your abilities that will shake this mortal world to its core.”

            “What if we say no?” Jesse challenged.

            “Then I’ll take my chances of securing a weaker shield, and choose one of you to kill.” Thor sounded like his patience was running out.

            Silence gripped the hangar for a few seconds; from the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam slide his knife free.

            “We haven’t fought before. Either of us.” Jordie finally said. “How will we know how to kill each other?”

            “Jordie!” Jesse protested.

            “Now you’re thinking straight, boy.” Thor said, stroking his beard. “As Jesse proved when I woke him from his sedation, in times of struggle and strife, your powers manifest themselves. So I wouldn’t worry. With your hands around each other’s throats, we’ll see what you’re capable of.”

            “Then let us go.” Jordie sounded surer and stronger than he had ever since he’d popped back into human form lying at Dean’s feet. It gave Dean a bad feeling. “We’ll do it. We’ll fight it out.”

            Jesse’s head snapped around. “Don’t _do_ this!”

            “He’s not giving us a choice, Jesse.” Jordie’s voice was steely calm. “I’m sorry. But I’ve been around a lot longer than you have, even if I don’t look like it. I’ve seen a lot of things. And I know he’s telling the truth. It’s you or me and I can’t take the chance.”

            “I think I’ve already found my winner.” Thor chuckled. “But let’s be sure.” He pulled out what looked to Dean like bright blue pocket knife, walked to the edge of the circle of Holy Oil and reached over to cut the ropes securing Jordie to the chair. He did the same for Jesse, stepping quickly back before Jesse could make a grab for him.

            The two boys rubbed their robe-burned wrists and stared at one another. Dean wondered what was going on in their heads.

            “You know the rules.” Thor said. “You know precisely what I will do if either of you tries to escape. And remember, I am far quicker.” His eyes flickered to Jesse. “And I’ve found you before.”

            He seemed to vanish into thin air, but since his focus was changing across every part of the room, Dean saw the god appear on the loft across from them. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder and spun them both around behind a stack of boxes.

            “Freakin’ coward.” Dean grunted. “Couldn’t stay downstairs to watch, huh?”

            A shuddering impact moved through the walls of the hangar, followed by an oily squeak as the doors of the hangar started to rise.

            “Guess the game’s on.” Dean said uneasily.

            “I’m sick of people playing by the rules.” Sam pushed up onto his hands and knees and dropped the keys to the beater into Dean’s hand. “Get those kids outta here, Dean.”

            Dean’s head snapped around. “What are you doing? Sam?”

            Sam spun up onto his feet. “Hey! _Thor_!”

            “ _Sam_!”

            Lightning burst through the hangar, snaking up the support beams, hitting Sam and smacking him back against the wall. Dean made a dive toward his brother but a second bolt knifed into his path, throwing him skidding back to the loft’s edge. He hung on by his fingertips for a second, then dropped thirty feet and twisted around to smack down hard on his arm.

            “Son of a _bitch_!” He screamed to let off the stabbing pain that arced up his shoulder and lodged in his throat; a sound like two boulders colliding roused him and got him moving as the hangar doors eased to a halt. He staggered to his feet and saw Jordie backing Jesse out of the hangar. There was a palpable energy clashing in the air around them like two magnets getting shoved together.

            “Hey! Hold up!” Dean started after them, then jumped back as another bolt of lightning arced into his path. Thor was coming down the steps, calling lightning down on him, the strata melting through the roof and leaving sizzling ember holes over his head.

            Dean heard the cry of rage before he realized what was happening; shirt smoking, skin blackened in patches, Sam leaped down the staircase and landed on Thor, driving the knife into the meaty part of the god’s shoulder.

            That was the last Dean saw of that fight, because right then Jordie made a move on Jesse and the kid’s energy came up around him like a shield.

            A white-fire nova of raw power blasted Dean back against the wall; smaller explosions followed the first as the kids started throwing psychic blows like punches, slinging each other across the tarmac. Grabbing his hurt shoulder— _right on the freaking week-old bullet wound_ —Dean took off after them.

            The sky was breaking apart, all that pent-up energy from the restrained power pouring down in sidewinder gusts of rain, funnels snaking across the field, touching down, ripping up the grass and going back up. The force of the wind slammed Dean against the side of the hangar and almost flipped him over; he grabbed the edge of the door to keep his balance as Jordie shoved both hands out toward Jesse, kicking him up off his feet and slamming him down on his back on the pavement.

            The ground started cracking under Dean’s feet; he could feel the control of both kids shifting, getting more into the fight. Pretty soon, they would start using their whole environment as weapons against each other. And who the hell knew how far their control could reach.

            He didn’t have many options; getting into the middle of the fight would be suicide. And there was no way he could yell loud enough for them to hear him.

            But he tried anyway. “ _Hey!_ ”

            At the same time, he angled his firearm and pulled the trigger.

            The bullet hit the pavement next to Jesse’s head, right when Jordie grabbed the kid by the front of his shirt and hauled him up. Jesse looked over at the hangar, shock penetrating the crazy fear in his round eyes. “ _Dean_?”

            Jordie, hand tangled in Jesse’s collar, looked over his shoulder. “What are _you_ doing here?”

            “You guys,” Dean straightened. “You gotta stop. You keep fighting like this, you’re gonna kill innocent people! A lot of ’em!”

            “He said if we don’t fight, he’ll kill one of us!” Jesse said.

            “Yeah, I heard the bastard. Let me and Sam worry about him. You two, get the hell outta town.” To Dean’s furious amazement, they hesitated. “Hey! You wanted a way out, here’s your chance! You better bail while we’ve got him distracted!”

            “He’ll find us again. He found me in Australia!” Jesse was dangling from Jordie’s grip looking like the fight was going out of him. That was something.

            “And he found me after years of hiding.” Jordie looked desperate. “He will _never stop_ looking for us. This is the only way.”

            “Screw that! This guy’s a big—really powerful—dick. But me and Sam, we got this. You need to _move_! Zap your asses over to Bobby Singer’s place.”

“I can’t. If I don’t know exactly where I’m going, I’ll mess it up.” Jesse said.

Dean yanked a hand back through his hair. “Fine.” He pulled the keys to the beater out of his pocket and held them up. “We got a car. You get in, you drive. There’s a spare cell phone in the glove compartment. Call Bobby, number’s already in the phone.” He tossed the keys and Jordie caught them reflexively. “He’ll take care’a you, all right?”

“Jordie, let’s go.” Jesse pleaded. “Come on, he’s right. We don’t have to fight just because Thor says so. I don’t want to work for him and his friends and I know you don’t want to, either. Let’s just _go_.”

Jordie looked like he was fighting a serious battle with him. Finally he looked up at Dean. “Why help us? We’re freaks. We’re freaks of nature. We can destroy people, you said it yourself.”

Dean sucked in a deep breath. “I gotta believe people can change, man. I gotta believe we make our own choices and it doesn’t matter what kinda crap people do to us. It’s still our lives. Or what the hell is the point?”

Jordie wavered; then he dropped Jesse onto the tarmac. “Can you stop him?”

“We can give you two a couple minutes.”

Jordie nodded. “What about Sadie? Where is she? She’s safe, right?”

Dean’s instincts told him to lie, but the lie got stuck in his throat.

His silence answered for him.

“No. No!” Jordie snapped. “I was trying to keep her safe. _You_ should’ve kept her safe! What happened?”

“She was dead before we got here.” Dean answered sharply. “You couldn’t tell?”

Jordie look horrified. “Her smell had changed. I just thought—”

“Jordie, we need to _go_.” Jesse interrupted, gaze moving from Dean to Jordie, reflecting bursts of lightning from inside the hangar.

Jordie, stricken, looked very slowly down at him.

“The kid’s right.” Dean turned back toward the hangar. “Get movin’!”

He didn’t wait to watch them go; he headed back into the hangar where the fight was just starting to take a turn for the worst.

The problem with gods was that they were cocky. And not just cocky, but pretty damn sure of their powers. Which made sense, because the minute Dean stepped into the hangar he watched Sam go flying, hit the wall and collapse. After a few seconds he pulled himself up onto one elbow, spat up blood, and sank down in a heap. And he didn’t get back up again.

Dean locked his sights on Thor and unloaded half his clip in a few seconds; the god dodged like Dean had tossed a paper wad at his face. The electric burst he sent toward Dean, on the other hand, picked him up off his feet and slammed him skidding down on his back. He fetched up against the side of the hangar and lost all his breath in one burst, struggling to get it back while he dragged himself to his feet.

“Aren’t you resilient?” Thor said with amusement. “More than most mortals I’ve seen. But you have a penchant for ridiculous heroism, too, it would seem.”

“One of my stellar qualities.” Dean grunted, tightening his grip on the gun. A rustle of movement flickered through the hangar as they sized each other up. Something moved in the shadows. Dean focused back on Thor’s face.

“I thought it would be obvious by now that that little thing is no match for my powers.” Thor said.

“You are one stupid son of a bitch. Yeah, I got the memo the first time.”

“Then—?” Thor trailed off at the wicked smile that crossed Dean’s face, his eyes on the figure that had materialized behind the god.

“Hello, Thor.”

Thor looked, very slowly, over one shoulder. And blanched.

“Castiel.”

The flash of Thor’s lightning caught the edge of Castiel’s blade in a wicked sheen as it arced for his face; their blows clashed, shoving them both back staggering a few steps. Eyes dazzled by the luminescence of the lightning, Dean blinked and put his hand against the wall to steady himself.

“Dean!” Castiel flipped the knife around in his hand, preparing to throw it, measuring Thor with an intense stare. “Get your brother.”

Dean started for the wall and Thor flung out both arms, sending streams of lightning in opposite directions: one toward Castiel—which the angel stopped with a hand up so that the lightning hit some sort of force-field in front of his face—and one toward Dean, creating a whip of pure crackling energy between him and Sam.

            “No one moves,” Thor said, breathing heavily. “Until I say.”

            Dean’s gaze flicked to his inert brother. “Cass, you got this jackass?”

            “I certainly hope so.” Castiel threw his arm back down to his side and broke the lightning cord, facing up to Thor sideways. “My brothers and I have been watching you for some time, Thor. Why do you lesser gods insist on using innocent people for your schemes? Nothing good ever comes out of it.”

            “Good or bad is in the eye of the beholder.” Thor said snidely. “Why does your Father insist on protecting these lust-drunk playthings? And He sends His strongest, brightest warriors to clean up their messes.”

            “You are right about one thing.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “He sends his strongest to do His will.”

            He lifted a hand and a ripple of energy shot out away from him, barreling into Thor and knocking him back onto the floor of the hangar.

            “Cass, damn! You’ve been holdin’ out on us!” Dean said with admiration.

            Castiel hunched over briefly, hands on his knees. “That was not a wise decision on my part.”

            Thor’s rebound rate was terrifying; he hopped back on his feet and brushed concrete dust off his shoulder.

            “ _Very_ unwise, Castiel.” He said tightly. “Very unwise of you to do that. You think I can’t see when an old rival is functioning at half his power? In fact, I’d wager you’re having a hard time staying on your feet.”

            Dean slid his gaze toward Castiel, who straightened up slowly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He raised his angel sword out in front of him.

            “If you think I’m weakened,” He said fiercely. “Then why are you afraid to fight me?” Thor glared at him, but said nothing. “I’m ordering you. Back away from these boys, or the next blow will _not_ be a forgiving one.”

            “I’m terrified.” Thor turned away.

            And vanished.

            Dean knew what was coming, but he’d only half-turned to warn Castiel when the god reappeared, grabbed Castiel by the throat and pinned him against the wall. Castiel stabbed blindly with the blade and missed; Dean aimed his firearm, got off the last couple shots he had. Thor blocked with a jet of lightning that smashed through the clot of bullets and aimed for his head. Dean narrowly dodged.

            “I’ll deal with you on my own time.” Thor snarled over his shoulder, and turned back to Castiel, who was twisting helplessly in his grip.

            “C’mon, Cass, fight back.” Dean said through gritted teeth; weaponless, defenseless, he wasn’t sure which way to go: to help Sam or Castiel. Or to just stay put, since this jackass had eyes in the back of his head and Dean couldn’t dodge lightning forever.

            “You’re functioning on borrowed power, little angel.” Thor drew in a deep breath that seemed to go on forever. Dean started to wonder if the guy would explode—or if he was part vacuum. “And I have all the time in the world.”

            A subtle hiss reached Dean’s ears as the angel blade was lifted off the floor—

            And plunged into Thor’s back.

            “No. You don’t.” Jordie hissed, twisting the blade in deeper. “Not anymore.”

            With a howl of fury, Thor whipped around and backhanded Jordie, throwing him to the floor. Dean winced at the sickening crack of the kid’s skull against the concrete; Jordie didn’t move.

            Castiel did; he slammed his elbow down on the inside of Thor’s arm, punched him in the throat, and headbutted him. Before Dean had a chance to admire the angel’s brawling skills, Castiel slithered free of Thor’s grasp and slipped around behind him, wrenching the knife free.

            His luck caught up with him right there. Thor picked Castiel up by the tops of his arms and flung him across the room. He crashed into Dean and sent them both sprawling, and by the time Dean sat up and shoved Castiel off of him, Thor was advancing on them, fingertips twitching with suppressed power.

            “I,” He said slowly, deliberately. “Have had enough of your interference.”

            And Jordie was right there, in between the god and Castiel and Dean, the knife in his hand again. “You wanted me to fight someone. So here you go.” A smirk flicked his lips. “No Holy Oil. So it’s a fair fight.”

            Thor paused. “Let’s see who is the—”

            Jordie flipped the knife over and hurled it.

            It sank into Thor’s chest at the same time the god’s lightning bolt consumed Jordie’s body. Screaming, the kid dropped—and went dead quiet, his eyes glazed with frozen pain, a thin stream of white smoke issuing from his open mouth.

            Thor dragged in a breath, hand gripping the hilt of the knife sunk into his chest. He looked at Dean, shock plain on his face, and spat up a mouthful of blood. He staggered toward Dean and Castiel, made it maybe nine, ten steps, then fell on his chest, blood pooling around his head.

            Castiel sat up, loosening his tie. “And that…is the end of the god Thor.”

            “What, just like that?” Dean demanded.

            “It was part of the Nordic stories, that Jormungander and Thor would kill one another.” Cass said. “Even the angels recognized it as inevitable.”

            “A little _heads-up_ mighta been nice! I thought we were gonna have to take on Zeus over there with a couple butter-knives and _this_!” He held up the empty gun.

            “Zeus and Thor are not the same being. Though their powers, admittedly, are similar.” Castiel said frankly.

            “You take everything too damn literally.” Dean grabbed his injured shoulder as a jolt of pain raced down his arm. “The kid dead?”

            “Yes.”

            “So why’d he come back? He knew the stories, right? He knew he’d end up just like his dad.”

            “I believe it had something to do with you.” Castiel said, and Dean looked at him, confused. “You inspired him, Dean. By showing belief in him, you brought him back to repay the favor.” Castiel walked to where Jordie lay, knelt, and closed the kid’s eyes with one hand. “And I’m sure despair played a part in it, also. He spent many years with Sadie, the first human to likely ever show him kindness. Her death must have shaken him to the core.”

            Dean had no response for that. “Where the hell is Jesse?”

            “From what I can feel, the boy is still in the city. But he’s on the move.” Castiel closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Northeast.”

            “He better be at Bobby’s when we get there, or next time I see him I’m gonna kick his ass.” Dean rolled onto his feet and headed to the far wall, crouching beside Sam, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. “Sam. Hey!”

            Sam’s eyelids flickered. He groaned, rolled his head briefly from side to side, then cracked his eyes open. “Dean.” He sat up slowly, arm curled painfully around his midsection, wiping his bleeding mouth on the back of his hand. “Did you kill him?”

            “Nah. Jordie did.” Dean looked over his shoulder at the body. “Kid died saving our skins.”

            “Yeah.” Sam pushed his hair back with one hand. “That happens a lot.” He looked over, saw Castiel and did a double-take. “Castiel?”

            “I’m sure you both have questions.” Cass strode over to them. “And I will answer them as best I can. But for now, fleeing is our best option. The authorities will be here soon.”

            “Dunno how much they think they can do against a freaking lightning storm.”

            “If there is one thing I know about humans,” Castiel said as he put two fingers to each of their foreheads. “It is that they are notorious for thinking they can do good rather than harm.”

            A balming warmth shot through Dean’s body as Castiel’s angel mojo mended his injuries. He yanked the bandage off his face and Sam put a hand carefully to his ribs, then sighed with relief.

            “Thanks, Cass.”

            “I’ll see you both at this location.” He handed Sam a slip of paper with a name scrawled on it. “It’s not far from here.”

            “Okay, why not just spirit us over there?” Dean demanded.

            “I had assumed you would want to bring your car along. But we can travel this way if it pleases you.” Castiel reached for them and Dean leaned away.

            “Uh, no thanks, Scotty, no more beaming us around the freaking country.” Dean nudged Sam with his elbow. “Let’s blow this falafel stand, Sam.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_December 15 th, 2011_

_Byxbee_ _Park, Palo Alto, California_

Castiel’s directions brought them to the edge of the Mayfield Slough.

            It wasn’t far enough away from the airport that Sam couldn’t hear the wailing sirens, but at least they couldn’t be seen; and if they couldn’t be seen, they couldn’t be questioned. Which was the whole point. But Sam wanted to put that place—and the sight of Jordie’s dead body—out of his mind. Tonight had been a nightmare.

            The sun had finally set and, in absence of the chaotic weather, was actually seasonably warm. Comfortable, even. As though nothing of importance had ever happened to upset the natural order of things. They bumped over the rutted road through Byxbee Park, and Sam mulled over everything that had happened. The beater car had been gone when they’d made it around the street corner, like he’d expected. But the fact that Jordie was now dead in the hangar raised another question.

            “I hope Jesse’s all right.”

            “Eh. Kid’ll be fine.”

            “Dean. He’s thirteen years old. And we just told him to drive to _South Dakota_ , by himself. Without directions.”

            “So? I told him to call Bobby. He’ll get there in one piece.”

            “What if he doesn’t?” Sam demanded. “Dean, that’s on _us_.”

            “Sam. Jesse’s not your average eighth-grade punk, y’know, he’s got bigger problems than acne and hidin’ Busty Asian Beauties from his mom. Pretty sure he can handle a car for a coupla days.”

            “I hope you’re right.”

            “Yeah, well, I know I am.”

            Sam looked out the window, frustrated and tired, and saw a smudge of brightness down by the edge of the Slough.

            “Hey.” He hit Dean’s arm lightly and pointed. “Cass.”

            Dean turned the Impala off-road and they careened across the thick mud and grass to the edge of the water. Dean killed the engine, leaned his head back for a second and heaved a sigh, then opened the door and stepped out. Sam followed him, feeling sore and fatigued even though Castiel had healed his injuries.

            The angel was standing with his back to them, staring out over the water, but he turned at their approach, the lights from civilization somewhere behind them reflecting dimly off his eyes.

            “Some party, huh?” Sam asked quietly.

            Castiel blinked. “Jormungander’s death was heroic. He truly was his father’s son.”

            “Coupla dumb bastards.” Dean said gruffly, hands shoved into his pockets.

            “I assume you meant no disrespect by that.” Cass said dangerously, and Dean hunched his shoulders in a Yeah-Whatever-I-Was-Just-Running-My-Mouth shrug. “I’m sure you have,” Castiel paused, mouth turning down at the corners in a wry expression. “Many questions.”

            “Why don’t you tell us how you’re alive, for starters.” Dean said, and Sam recognized his brother’s belligerent tone. “Last time I saw you, you were askin’ me to kill you, Cass.”

            “I was _dying_ , Dean.” Castiel said firmly. “Even an angel of the Lord can feel pain, and what I had gone through was the worst—” He broke off, looking away, and Sam felt a rush of sympathy. He knew what it felt like to face pain so overwhelming it was like you were holding on to life by the tips of your fingers.

            Castiel looked back at them, expressionless again. “When God—raised me again, after what happened in the cemetery,” He said, and Sam saw Dean shift almost imperceptibly beside him. “He renewed my powers. But that alone wasn’t enough to combat what was done to me. What I was…it was barely passable as living.”

            “All right, suffering, angel Hell, we get it.” Dean said. “I wanna know how the hell you got better.”

            “Balthazar.” Cass said the name with some annoyance, but the look on his face was full of affection. Maybe even gratitude. “He came to me while Bobby was away. We made an accord.”

            “Oh, tell me you didn’t sell the bastard your soul, Cass.” Dean groaned.

            “This soul, this…essence, the life in me…is not a bargaining tool. Balthazar knows that.” Castiel said, and his tone implied Dean was stupid for even asking. Sam wrestled down a smile. “No, his terms were different. Far more complicated.”

            “Right. ’Cause the, uh, _bargaining_ of one’s immortal soul is pretty cheap these days, right?” Dean slanted a look at Sam. “What’s the asking price?”

            “How about a day as Death?” Sam shot back, and Dean sobered up.

            “This is not a laughing matter, Dean.” Castiel said. “What Balthazar offered me was his strength. Healing.”

            “I thought he was cut of from Heaven. Like you used to be.” Sam said.

            “He was. Centuries ago. But before the war, before Lucifer was cast out, Balthazar was a Healer. He excelled at any kind of ministration. He knew that it was the only hand he had to play, and he played it excellently.”

            “So he brings you back from the brink, works some heaven-on-earth mojo, and now you’re his bitch?” Dean demanded.

            “I don’t understand why you, of all people, seem to think being indebted to someone makes you ta whore.” Cass said frankly. “For all intents and purposes.”

            Dean crossed his arms, looking uncomfortable. “All right, whaddya wanna call it then? Friends with benefits?”

            “It’s a partnership.” Cass said, brushing off Dean’s jab. “Balthazar has agreed to be my eyes and ears here on earth. It’s too much for me to handle alone, with the civil war and the uprising of monsters.”

            “So, what did he want from you?” Sam asked, bracing himself for a curve ball.

            Castiel’s eyes swung to him. “Immunity. Something he could never ask of Raphael. Balthazar will help me win this war in exchange for his freedom.”

            “So he picked your team because you’re the warm and fuzzy one?” Dean looked offended. “Douchebag.”

            “On the contrary. It’s a sign of his survival instincts. Balthazar knows Raphael is a traditionalist, and if he rises to power, Balthazar will be hunted without mercy. He chose to help me because he trusts me to keep my word.”

            “Okay, so Balthazar fixes you up, lends you some power.” Dean looked at Castiel narrowly. “He give you the weapons?”

            Cass heaved a sigh. “No. For the time being, he’s still playing his cards close to his chest. The weapons are another definite guarantee of his survival and I doubt he’ll give them to me unless he’s absolutely sure I’ll be the one to win this battle.”

            “What makes you so sure?” Sam asked.

            “Because. It’s what I would do, if I were in his position.”

            Silence filled the gap in the conversation after that, slightly awkward. Sam listened to the muted sigh of the water moving through the Slough. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.

            “Sam.” Castiel said suddenly as though reading his thoughts. “What happened with Sadie,” He paused, shaking his head very slowly. “I’m sorry.”

            Sam’s throat felt tight. He didn’t really care how Castiel had found out; he just knew that hearing that name made something deep in his chest hurt. “Yeah, so am I.”

            “So what happened out there, Cass?” Dean asked, steering the conversation away from the uncomfortable subject. “When you dropped by in Essex, you said you were goin’ to scout out the monsters. Next thing I know you’re bleedin’ all over my baby’s backseat. What’d they do to you?”

There was another weighted pause; then Castiel sighed. “I took several of my brothers to follow a pattern of strange attacks across the seaboard They’re very active, never staying more than two or three days in any given city. But wherever these attacks take place, inevitably, pandemonium follows after and refuses to abate.”

            Dean nodded. “Yeah, Bobby and I picked up on the mojo out near Illinois. Skinwalkers?”

            “Skinwalkers, vampires.  The armies that rallied around something Balthazar referred to as the Mother of All. Without her, they’ve fallen into total chaos and seem to be turning or killing at random. The path of destruction they leave is immense, but they seems to choose quiet towns where the news won’t travel far, or with any kind of urgency.”

            “Covering their tracks,” Sam realized.

            “Yes. And they seemed to be rallying outside of Essex when my battalion intercepted them.”

            “That explains the omens,” Dean muttered.

            “We were ambushed.” Castiel said, glassy eyes staring at something beyond them, something the brothers couldn’t see. “We weren’t the only ones attacking. A host of demons had already laid siege to the monsters when we arrived. Our presence only served to unite them: we were the common enemy and they turned on us together.”

            “Holy crap.” Dean said bluntly.

            “It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. No clash of forces has reached that intensity since Lucifer fell. The bedlam was overwhelming. There were…fifteen of us.” Castiel shook his head slightly. “One survived apart from myself. I sent her back to heaven and went to warn you.”

            “Cass, I’m sorry.” Sam said.

            “They died noble deaths.” Castiel said. “At one time, that would have been enough.” He straightened his shoulders and looked from Sam to Dean and back again. “That isn’t all I found out. The demons had a very special kind of weapon, something I didn’t expect them to have.” Sam and Dean stared at him blankly, waiting. “They were carrying angelic blades. Michael once called them seraph swords.”

“Like the one you have?” Sam asked.

“Exactly the same.”

“Wait.” Dean held up a hand in a Slow-Down-A-Minute gesture. “ _Demons_ were carrying them? That doesn’t make sense. Where the hell’d they get _angel_ swords?”

“That’s what troubles me.” Castiel rubbed a hand through his feathery dark hair. “And there’s more. Balthazar believes Raphael has found a vessel. He’s scouting on the subject and will report back to me as soon as possible.”

            “Oh, great. Awesome.” Dean smiled humorlessly. “So any random person we walk past on the street could be this dick tryin’ to kill us?”

            Castiel’s lips twitched. “On the contrary. Raphael is a creature of habit. He’ll take a vessel similar to his first. Voice, skin-color, possibly gender. There will be some sort of similarity, which narrows the possible range.”

            “By about a million people.” Dean raked a hand back through his hair. “Guess we’ll just worry about the other two mil.”

            “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you more. But until Raphael reveals himself to challenge me openly, you’ll need to be on your guard.”

            “Every single damned day.” Dean nodded to Castiel. “What about you?”

            “If nothing else, the skirmish with the demons and Mother’s minions earned me the respect of my brothers. They’ll follow me against Raphael more confidently.” A glimmer of doubt entered his gaze. “I’ll return to Heaven and rally my forces. It seems we’re being assaulted from every side and I cannot afford to be caught unprepared.”

            “You mean with your pants down?” Dean joked.

            “Why would I remove my pants?”

            “ _Good_ question. That is an excellent question. Sam, why would he?” Dean turned to Sam with a Bestow-Upon-Us-Your-Boundless-Sasquatch-Wisdom look. Sam resisted the urge to tell Dean to bite him.

            “Anything else you can tell us about the monsters?” Sam asked.

            “Only that they seem—strangely desperate.” Castiel shook his head. “Though I can’t understand _why_.”

            Dean hesitated. “Couldn’t have anything to do with humans, could it?”

            Castiel looked at him narrowly. “Not that I can see. Why do you ask?”

            Dean shifted his weight uneasily. “Heard Thor say he wanted to use one of those Halflings as a shield against humans.”

“Back in Essex,” Sam added, glancing at Dean sideways. “That Draugr, Isabelle Pole. She mentioned wanting to stop hunters from doing something.”

Castiel’s expression was troubled. “I’ll look into it.”

 “Yeah, well, thanks for that. Listen, we’ll keep an eye out down here and give you a holler if we hear anything.” Dean said. “You just make sure you don’t drop dead on us, all right?”

            “Believe me. I have no intention of dying.” Castiel tilted his head back to look at the clear night sky. “There is a human legend that says each star represents an angel who died in battle.”

            “What, like God’s tribute to his soldiers?”

            “It’s what the stories say.”

            “What a load’a crap.”

            Castiel turned away. “Humans believe many absurd things.”

            Dean stepped forward suddenly. “Hey. Cass. You prove whatever it was you wanted to prove by goin’ after those monsters?”

            Castiel looked back at him with such naked grief in his eyes, Sam almost felt it in his own gut. “The only thing I’ve proven about myself is that I am capable of leading a battalion of faithful soldiers to slaughter.”

            He vanished with a whip of his trenchcoat, leaving Sam and Dean standing alone on the muddy median.

            “Well, that was cheerful.” Dean said, walking back toward the Impala. “What’s next? Little siesta, head up toward Bobby’s?”

“Not yet.” Sam said, lowering himself into the shotgun seat. “There’s something I need to take care of first.”

 

 

“You wanna tell me why we’re staked out in front of this dump, Sam?” Dean looked up through the window at the crumbling west face of the apartment complex on the edge of Stanford’s campus. Sam drummed his fingers on the windowsill, flipping his phone over in his hand.

“You’ll see.”

They’d been sitting there for an hour and Sam was rehearsing the whole thing in his head. Calling the cops would probably be the smarter thing to do at this point; but it wouldn’t be justice. And that was what Sam was after.

“What’re we waitin’ for? End of the world?”

“No.” Sam caught sight of the figure walking toward the apartment complex, and nodded. “That.”

“Great. A _strung-out_ junkie.” Dean said. “Impressive that you managed to find one in California.”

Sam gave him a withering look. “I’ll be right back.”

He stepped out of the car and crossed the street, coming up the broken, weed-choked sidewalk just as the guy was fishing his keys out of his coat pocket.

“Max?” Sam called when he was still a few steps away. “Max Cambor?”

The guy turned around, blinking bloodshot eyes at Sam. Seeing him face-to-face, it made sense to Sam why Sadie had attacked him so viciously. The similarities between him and Max were almost uncanny. No wonder the Revenant had been easily fooled into believing Sam was Max. “Who’s asking?”

“Hey, I’m an alumni.” Sam stopped a couple of feet away, making sure he was close enough to stop Max if he tried to escape through the doors. “I need to talk to you for a sec.”

“Sorry, man, I’m kinda,” Max’s eyes rolled up a little as he blinked. “I am _really_ hungover. Can this wait?”

“No. We’re doing this now.” Sam stepped closer, feeling his anger lashing against the tight restraints he held it under. “You remember Sadie Savage?”

Max’s eyes widened, the yellowish-red tinge going out of them. “Uh, no, never heard of her. Of it. Of, uh…who are we talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me, you son of a bitch.” Sam snapped. “I know what you did. I know you followed her out of that party, tried to kiss her, got rough with her when she didn’t want you. I know you _killed_ her.”

Max pointed a trembling finger at him. “Okay, now _that_ is a lie, man. I heard people talking on campus, they said she was in class.”

“Yeah, well, college kids start rumors all the time. This isn’t that far from high school, Max.” Sam spread his arms out in a There-You-Go shrug. “A couple of ghost stories doesn’t change what you did. And you _know_ you killed her.”

Max’s eyes glistened and he breathed through gritted teeth. “It was an _accident_ , okay? I _loved_ Sadie. She meant everything to me!”

“So you pushed her around?” Sam demanded. Max wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Man, I have done some pretty…” He trailed off and took a deep breath. “I’ve done a lot of stuff I wish I could take back. And I get you didn’t do it on purpose. So I’d kinda be a hypocrite if I turned you in.”

“Then why you talkin’ to me, man?”

“Because I want you to know, that _I_ know what you did. That I know what really happened to Sadie Savage. A lot of pretty awful stuff happened because you couldn’t keep it together, Max.”

“I can’t change that! So whaddya want me to do?”

“Nothing.” Sam said coolly. “Nothing you do is gonna make this right. But five, ten years from now, I want you to wake up in the middle of the night and remember her face. I want you to remember what you did to her. You killed an innocent girl. And I want that to haunt you for the rest of your life.”

“Why? What’s the point?”

“People don’t get to escape from their pasts, Max.” Sam stepped back, shrugged again and let his arms fall loose at his sides. “You’re not any different.”

He turned and walked away, hot and cold at the same time from the rush of the argument. He heard Max take a sniffling breath behind him.

“What are you, some kinda demon?”

Sam stopped, grabbed his temper and held on. He half-turned to face Max, hesitated, and really thought about it; finally, he looked over his shoulder.

“I was in love with Sadie’s cousin.” He said. “And I got her killed.”

Max squeezed his eyes shut and the tears started flowing. And Sam walked away; walked back to the Impala, got inside and slammed the door. Dean looked over at him sideways and didn’t comment on the look in Sam’s eyes or the way he glanced down at the floor, blinking hard and fast.

Dean put the car into drive. “I’m starving, Sam. You starving?”

 

 

            They ended up at a burger joint a few blocks from Stanford; and while Sam wasn’t the biggest fan of meat and cheese on a bun soaked in grease, he was too hungry and worn-out to care. He socked away two burgers and a Coke just as fast as Dean did, and felt a lot better with sugar in his system, even knowing he was killing his arteries in the process.

            “So, we saved Jesse.” Dean said with a mouthful of burger. “Score.”

“And we stopped two Halflings from destroying the city.”

“Gave Max Cambor somethin’ to chew on.”

Sam rubbed his face in his hands. “A _lot_ to chew on.”

“Got one less god to deal with.” Dean added with a stuffed-cheek smile, pointing at Sam with his smallest finger. “Bonus.”

Sam half-smiled, spinning his empty paper soda cup across the table. True, they had done a lot of good on this case; they’d also lost Sadie and Jordie.

“What d’you think happened to the Rakshasa?” He wondered aloud.

“Probably went runnin’ to fill his little monsters in on whatever it was Sadie told him.” Dean said sourly, and Sam cut him a glare. “Look, Sam, I’m not saying it was the girl’s fault, all right? She was dead, y’know, she couldn’t help it.” Dean shrugged awkwardly. “Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut, though.”

“You think I’m not kicking myself for that?” Sam demanded. “I put both of us in danger, Dean. I know that.”

“Man, I’m not angry.” Dean said quietly. Sam slouched back in his chair, arms crossed, glaring. “I’m not. I know how much this job sucks. Y’know? I know how badly you wanna tell _someone_ about all the crazy stuff we’ve seen.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked away. “And, every time I _do_ , someone ends up dead.” He shook his head. “It’s like I’m cursed, Dean.”

Dean picked up the last quarter of his second burger, looked at it, then threw it back down on the wrapper and crossed his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. “You and me both.”

They got quiet for a few minutes, Sam trying not to close his eyes or even think, because every time he did he saw Sadie’s face in his mind. And Jessica’s. It was too much, both things slamming him at once. Both of these people he’d failed. And when he’d come back to somehow apologize, make amends, he’d just ended up stuck in another case. The lifestyle followed him everywhere—even to Jessica’s grave.

When Sam’s cell-phone vibrated in his pocket, he almost jumped out of his skin, accidentally nailing Dean with a kick under the table. Dean sat up, glaring, but bit back whatever biting witticism he was building up to when he saw Sam fishing out his phone.

“Is this that pay-as-you-go phone Bobby gave us for backups?” He asked, showing Dean the number.

He nodded. “It was in the beater.”

Sam took the call. “Jesse?”

“Sam.” The kid sounded a little freaked out. “I need some help.”

Sam sat up straight. “Where are you?”

“I’m not sure…somewhere near the border.” Jesse took a deep breath. “The car broke down. And there’s this guy. Standing in the middle of the road.”

Sam shot a panicked look toward Dean, then squeezed his eyes shut. “Jesse. Listen to me. I need you to think about one thing for me, okay? _Sioux Falls_ , _South Dakota_. Got it? Say it back to me.”

“Sioux Falls.” Jesse echoed shakily. “South Dakota. Sam, he’s walking toward the car. His skin’s green.”

“Jesse, phase out. Just leave the car and _go_. Straight to Sioux Falls.”

“What if I screw it up and I—?”

“Jesse, go!”

He heard the phone drop and clatter and a fuzzy static filled the line. Heart jumping up into his throat with every swish of his pulse, Sam waited for something to happen. For something to come across the line.

The static intensified.

“Hello?” He said sharply.

“Hello. Sam, isn’t it? Sam Winchester.” The feminine voice sounded like a teen pop star, all bubblegum sweetness and innocence wrapped in sugar. Definitely not the Rakshasa.

“Who the hell is this?” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s Jesse?”

“He’s right here with me.” A pause. “Well, not with me, with me.” A high-pitched laugh. “Sam, didn’t anyone ever teach you to keep your friends close? And now look what you did. Poor little Jesse.” She clucked her tongue. “But I promise, I was quick. The little monster didn’t suffer.”

Ice closed in a stalactite fist around Sam’s heart. “You bitch.”

“Oh, Sam. That’s not very nice. And here I’d heard such wonderful things about you. How you were the sweet one. The cuddly, warm son of a coldhearted father.” Her tone was sympathetic and raked Sam’s spine like fingernails on a chalkboard. “But you’ve been slumming it with monsters, haven’t you.” She clucked her tongue. “That’s just not going to work, Sam.”

“Look who’s talking.” Sam growled. “Why don’t you put your green-skinned friend on the phone?”

“Oh, him? He’s pretty far from a friend.” The girl laughed. “He’s told me all about you, Sam. Every little thing you told Miss Savage. But don’t worry. Your ugly secrets are safe with me.”

Sam got up and walked swiftly to the corner of the restaurant. “Listen to me, ’cause I’m only gonna say this once.” He spat. “You stay away from me, stay away from my brother and stay away from Bobby and Castiel.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sam. We’re all soldiers on the battlefield now. And as much as I’d love to have you on my side—I think it’s obvious by now that’s not going to happen. We’re too different, you and I. So I’ll give you a fair warning: anything goes in this game. Gloves are off.”

“Same to you.”

“I think we both know there are boundaries you won’t ever cross again, Sam. But you might have to consider it, if you want to stand a chance of surviving. You’ll have to see things my way, sooner or later.”

“What’s a monster gain by killing all the humans? No more toys to play with.”

“Me? I’m not a monster, Sam. In a lot of way, I’m just like you. I’m just trying to survive what’s coming. I want us all to make it through alive.” She broke off with a tingly laugh. “Well. Except for you. And Dean. And the rest of your family. Something worse is coming for you.”

“Yeah, your friend told me that.”

“Then let’s get the game started, shall we?”

“I don’t think of this as a game.”

“All right, if you want to look at it that way,” A brittle, icy undercurrent seeped into the girl’s voice. “Then let’s start a war.”

 


	11. Epilogue

_December 16 th, 2011_

_Kingfisher Motel, Reno, Nevada_

“Yesterday was crap. You get that, right? Yesterday was the longest, ripest, deadliest _crap_ I never wanna think about again.”

            “I get it, Dean.” Sam said tiredly. “I got it the first time.”

            Dean crossed his arms behind his head and listened to Sam throwing his dirty clothes into the duffle bag. They’d driven until just after one in the morning and crashed at a motel outside of Reno. Dean hadn’t slept that hard or that long in what felt like years; it was late afternoon and they were just now packing up. Or at least Sam was; Dean was sprawled out on one of the beds, kicking the metal leg idly with his heel.

            “Bobby called you yet?”

            “Yeah. He made some calls. They found the beater with Jesse’s body inside.” Sam said flatly; he’d been pretty flat, and quiet, just not his usual annoying-commentary Sammy self since Jesse had called him the night before. Which Dean couldn’t blame him for; talking to the random crazy who’d killed a kid and wanted to start some kind of war…that could put anyone in a bad mood.

            “And I repeat,” He said, “Who was that bitch?”

            “I dunno.” Sam’s voice was pitched low with unease. “She didn’t say.” He zipped the duffle shut. “She just said she was after us. I guess the Rakshasa was reporting to her.” He threw the bag against the floor beside the front door and dropped his head into his hands, shoulders hunching with a deep breath.

            Dean sat up, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. “Hey. Sam.”

            Sam picked up his head but didn’t look over at Dean.

            “Man, it sucks. God knows it sucks.” Dean shrugged slightly. “We can’t save everybody, Sammy. You know it, I know it. Once Thor pulled Jesse outta hiding, kid was pretty much a goner.”

            “We should have kept him with us.”

            “Don’t let that chick—whoever she was— get into your head, Sam. She woulda found a way to split us up eventually. Best thing we can do now is make her pay for it with a knife in the throat.”

            It was obvious Sam was fighting a smile. “Yeah.”

            His phone rang. Dean slumped back against the headboard. “Man, if it’s that girl again, tell her we’re on the no-call list.”

            Rolling his eyes, Sam answered the call. “Hello?” His expression shifted almost immediately from one of exasperated amusement to one of surprise and maybe a little worry. “Uh…Lisa?”

            Dean sat straight up and put out his hand with a Give-Me-The-Phone- _Right-Now_ expression. Sam held up a finger to stall him.

            “Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine. He’s right here.” Sam passed the phone over. “I’ll be outside.” He grabbed the duffle and hauled ass out. Coward.

            “Lis?”

            “I tried calling your cell. I couldn’t get through.” She sounded frustrated: Bad Sign Number One.

            “Yeah, uh…I lost it on the case. How’d you get Sam’s number?”

            There was a pause. “You gave it to me in case anything ever happened to you after you left. Remember?”

            Dean squinted one eye shut. “Right. Yeah, I remember that.”

            The silence was so bitingly awkward it was getting under Dean’s skin. Bad Sign Number Two. Finally, rubbing the back of his neck, he sighed. “What’s up, Lis?”

            “I wanted to apologize.” She jumped into it like she’d been waiting for the invitation. Dean felt the tiniest spark of hope in his chest.

            “Hey, c’mon, you don’t have to—”

            “For Ben.” She cut him off firmly. “He told me he called you.”

            That threw Dean for a loop for a few seconds. “He doesn’t have to apologize for callin’ me. I care about the kid.”

            “It’s an issue for _us_ , Dean.” Lisa said. “You know, Trevor is doing _everything_ he can to get closer to Ben. Taking him to ball games, helping him with his homework, trying to talk him through his problems.”

“Everything I used to do, you mean?” Dean asked, and the silence across the line was answer enough. “Look, Lisa. I know I screwed up.”

“You almost _hurt_ my _son_ , Dean.”

He winced. “All right, I screwed up pretty bad.” He amended. “But you don’t have to shut me out, Lis. I know things can’t go back to perfect, apple-pie, whatever you wanna call it. But hell. I at least wanna see you and the kid.” She didn’t say no, which made him taste hope on the back of his tongue. “Look, Sam and I just finished a case. Lemee drop him off at Bobby’s and I’ll drive out and meet you guys. We can go out for pizza, just sit and talk, try and work things out. All right?”

“Dean…” Her tone was Bad Sign Number Three. Three strikes, you’re out.

“Lisa, please.” He felt himself cracking, his life dividing in two ways: the life he needed and the life he wished he could have. He felt like he was balancing Sam, Bobby and Castiel in one hand and Lisa and Ben in the other; and every time he tried to hold on tighter to one family, the other one slipped away. “Don’t give up on me, all right?”

“I’m not.” She said, the pain in her voice so intense Dean wished she was right there beside him so he could wrap his arms around her. “Dean, I’m not giving up on you. I still—” She stopped herself. “I care about you. I do. But life’s been hell for Ben as it is. He grew up without a decent male role model. And then you came along, and you were great with him. You were. But you’re not _here_ anymore, Dean. And this whole thing is too unstable. I can’t let it go on.”

“Lis, come on.”

“We’re moving, Dean.” She said, ignoring him. “Trevor has a job out of state and I want to be closer to him. So, Ben and I are moving. And I want you to lose my number.” Her voice was soft but strong, no doubt or any kind of hesitation in her tone.  “Please don’t call me anymore.”

Dean closed his eyes, took a few seconds to grab onto his unraveling composure, and cleared his throat. “All right, uh, what about Ben? He kinda started this whole thing, callin’ me in the first place.”

“I’ll have a talk with him.” Lisa said, businesslike and cool, distant.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“And, Dean?” Lisa added after another awkward pause. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

Dean half-smirked, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You know me. Can’t keep it together if my life ain’t on the line.”

“Dean…”

“I’m trying, Lisa.”

“I guess that’s all I can hope for.” He could feel her slipping away, getting uneasy with the conversation. “Well, that’s it then. I guess…just be safe.”

“You too.”

One more weighted silence. The kind that had always led up to soft-spoken questions about his past. Her hand on his chest, tracing his scars. Dean shut his eyes.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

She hung up, and after listening to the void on the other end for a few seconds, Dean tossed Sam’s phone onto the bed. Then he got up, paced across the room and yanked his hands roughly back through his hair.

He put his fist through the drywall.

 

 

“Everything okay?” Sam asked as Dean flung himself into the front seat of the Impala and slammed the door shut. His brother’s face was rutted with anger and his eyes glittered like he was about to kill something. And his knuckles were bleeding. “Lisa’s not in trouble, is she?”

Dean threw Sam’s phone into his lap. “Bite me.”

“Hey!” Sam snapped. “I’m just tryin’ to help, man.” Dean cut him a warning look from the corners of his eyes as he pulled out of the motel. Sam slouched back in the seat, reading Dean’s Leave-It-Alone expression like an open book. He looked out the window. “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll hear you out.”

They hit the highway heading northeast, and Sam was struck by how deserted this stretch was; but for the most part that’s what his life had always been. Backwater roads to backwoods places where evil stalked on the heels of every monster-under-your-bed story people had ever heard of. His entire past could be written on one long winding road through the middle of nowhere—the good and the bad.

But the more he thought about it, the good seemed to happen when he wasn’t following that path anymore. Stanford—and Jessica. Things like that had been pipedreams until he’d gotten off the road his father had set his feet on ever since he was a kid. Back then, he’d never thought about having his own future; and then that teacher at Truman High had told him to get away from his family and find his own happiness. And he had, until the road had caught up to him. Now he was chasing it to nowhere, back in the front seat of this car. This place was more his home than anywhere else he’d ever been.

He stared out the window at the red desert flashing by.

“Y’know, we figure things out, we’ll come back around here next year.” Dean said, reading Sam’s silence the same way Sam had read his look. “Ditch all the freaky crap for a week, give you some time off. It’ll probably kill me, but you can show me Stanford. All the places you geeked out after you ditched us.”

Sam half-smiled. “Nah. I don’t think we’ll come back.”

He felt Dean’s eyes on him, saw his brother shrug. “Okay, not comin’ back to California.” He went for the radio, but all that was playing was a warbling, depressing blues station and a whole lot of static. He clicked it off. “Welcome to Hell, USA.”

The miles rolled beneath the wheels in silence.

“You know what Ben was to me?” Dean asked suddenly, pulling Sam out of thoughts of what they’d faced in Palo Alto. He looked like the question had been eating its way out of him ever since he’d gotten into the car.

“Uh, a great kid?” Sam replied.

Dean gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles jutted under his skin. “Hell, Sammy, you gonna make me say it?” He asked quietly.

Sam raised his eyebrows and waited for Dean to explain himself.

He didn’t disappoint. “After you were gone, I was a wreck. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. I had nightmares. Only thing I did was drink and tear apart all the books I could find tryin’ to bring you back. Got to the point where I couldn’t go a whole damn day without feelin’ like I was losing my mind. So you know what I did?”

“Moved on?” Sam guessed.

He shook his head. “I used Ben to fill up that huge _freaking_ hole where you used to be. I taught that kid everything I taught you growin’ up. Fixin’ cars, how to drive, man, I taught him everything. And it was killin’ me. Every time I looked at him, I’d see you and I’d be thinking, ‘God, Sam shoulda stayed this way. He shoulda just stayed a kid, moved out, gone to some fancy-ass school, gotten married to some hot chick and forgotten about us. Dad never shoulda let him into this screwed-up life.’” He glanced out the driver’s side window. ” ‘ _I_ never shoulda let him into this life.’”

“You had to, Dean.” Sam said. “Who else is gonna watch your back?”

It was all he could say, because it felt like someone had landed a solid kick to his diaphragm. He couldn’t even look at Dean.

The lonely road twisted away through the horizon, disappearing in a sea of rust-colored dirt. And Sam realized he’d have always ended up here. If it had been five years later, or ten. When the chaos started, when Azazel chose Jake because Sam wasn’t there to stop him, and Lilith found someone else to break the seals, Dean would’ve inevitably shown up at Sam’s doorstep to ask for help. And Sam would’ve gone with him, dropped his life and followed his brother into the dark. Like he’d done his whole life. Like he would now, no matter what was waiting inside the shadows.

 Because all the bad blood between them didn’t matter, the times when his dad and Dean had told him to walk out and never come back. Somehow it was always going to come down to this road, this car, and this feeling that wasn’t happiness or anger or resignation. It was just realizing that things could be a lot worse than having someone in the front seat with him who he could count on no matter what the hell ever happened to the world.

Sam didn’t believe in destiny, not after everything they’d been through. But he believed family was stronger than anything. Dean had taught him that.

“Dude. Stop with the grinning. The hell are you thinking about over there?” Dean demanded, shooting Sam a ridiculously nervous look.

“Nothing.” Sam tried to fight his smile, failed, and let it go. “Just thinking I had a crappy guidance councilor at Truman High.”

“You freak.”

Sam laughed.

As they cruised down the highway, windows licked with airborne threads of tarnish and gold, Sam smelled the hazy breath of freesia in the air.

* * *

 

 _"These woods are lovely, dark and deep,_  
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep."—Robert Frost

 


End file.
